


Art and Obligation

by ImagineBeatles



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1820s, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen, Alternate Universe - Regency, Jim McCartney is an asshole, John loves cats, Kinda, M/M, McLennon, Paul is an arrogant prick, Paul speaks french, Pride and Prejudice Inspired, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, Slow Burn, and a bit of a slut, but he's alright really, mention of hitting and spanking as a form of discipline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 138,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineBeatles/pseuds/ImagineBeatles
Summary: John Lennon works as the apprentice of a well-known portraitist and is tasked to do the picture of the young Mr. Paul McCartney. He is the son of Jim McCartney, a wealthy and powerful landowner, and has the reputation of an arrogant, spoilt brat with a pretty face, who has a way of wrapping anyone around his finger. But soon John finds that things are not as straightforward as they may seem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be my first work on here! I've posted this before on my Tumblr and Wattpad, but I'll also be posting it on here now. I plan on posting a new chapter every Saturday, though the first nine chapters have already been written, so I'll be posting those sooner. I hope you're going to like it! Excuse any mistakes. Oh, and don't be afraid to comment, of course :) 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, The Beatles or any of their relatives and friends. This is purely fictional and I do not make money from this.

There weren’t many people who could remember a time before the McCartneys had been one of the most prominent families in the north of England, especially around the city of Liverpool. The impact they had had on the city and its people was astounding, the family having ties with many of the most influential persons in and outside of the city, like lawyers, judges, officers, bankers, doctors, clergymen, merchants, and successful entrepreneurs, as well as other landowners. Not a day went by when the McCartney family was not at least mentioned in passing, leaving few with the ability to imagine a time the family had not been or would not be around, their influence and power reaching far beyond their own land.

Their large estate, that stood some miles off from the city, doomed up high upon the hill onto which the fast-growing city had been built, giving the impression of an ever watchful eye overlooking the city with a scrutinising gaze. It was a gorgeous manor house. A fine piece of Carolean architecture, built around the 1690s in a H-shaped floor plan, and faced with gorgeous, smooth sandstone, that coloured golden in the evening light of the autumn sun. The outside was completely symmetrical, decorated with false windows that were just so placed as to provide perfect symmetry. The building as a whole was large with two floors, a grand attic, and a basement, all housed under one dark grey tiled roof, with a copula in the centre.

The estate was surrounded by hundreds of acres of land, both private and for rent. The former was divided up into different gardens, filled with oak trees, ash trees, silver birch trees, elm trees, willow trees, and even fruit trees, from which hung not only apples and pears, but also oranges, lemons, plums, and even cherries, which dangled down at just the right height for someone to reach up and pick some if they found themselves feeling peckish. There was a large pond in the middle of the land, where ducks swam around between the lily pads and willow trees lined the edge, their branches hanging low in the water. A narrow gravel pathway lead to and from the manor, along which benches were placed every couple of hundred meters. A few minutes’ walk from the manor stood a coach house, some stables and a orangery, which were surrounded by a large meadow where the horses could stand and graze at their own leisure.

The family itself consisted of the master of the manor, James McCartney, and his two sons, Paul, who was the eldest at 22, and Michael, who was two years younger than his brother. Their mother had passed away from illness when they had been young, and although there had been women eager to marry the widower, James McCartney had remained unmarried since his wife’s death, and did not show any intent on changing that soon. Although the older women had been dismayed by this particular choice, the young ladies had not considered this much of a set-back, the two sons still being very much unmarried.

Although one might think such young men would have no trouble finding themselves a suitable bride – after all, both were exceptionally handsome, especially the eldest with his cherubic face, his doe eyes, and ruby lips – this couldn’t be further from the truth. The youngest, Michael McCartney, although well-mannered and polite, was often away in London, leaving the women with little time to make sure they caught his eye. The same, however, could not be said about his older brother, who to most could only be described as arrogant, haughty, and insincere, qualities that put most young women off on them first meeting him, despite the promise of the incredible fortune he would come to inherent. His father wasn’t much better; being proud, opportunistic, and strict, he ruled both his sons and his servants with a firm hand, not to mention the tenants on his land. All in all, the McCartney family was not as well-liked under the people of Liverpool as they could have been, and inspired more disgust than reverence in them. Most preferred to stay out of their way as much as possible because of it.

The same was true for the young artist by the name of John Lennon. Thus far he had even succeeded, pretending the McCartneys were nothing more than a legend he wasn’t meant to talk about and thus never did. Not once in the twenty-four years he had been alive, had he come in contact with any of the men who resided in that impressive manor house that loomed over the city, but of course this couldn’t remain true.

John Lennon was an apprentice of Mr Frank Edwards, a renowned artist and portraitist, whose clientele for the large part consisted of the most respected families in the north of England, who would sometimes send for him personally if they lived too far away. He was forty-five years of age, unmarried, and dedicated to his work and name, having made his career when he was only young at the age of twenty-six. He came from a well-off family, his father having been a lawyer, and although it had been expected he would follow into his father’s footsteps like his brother had, he had taken a different course and had rapidly made quite the name for himself in the art world. He was short, rather stout-looking, but always stood upright with his stomach tucked in, and held his head up high whenever he spoke to someone, making him look not only taller and slimmer, but also more dignified and domineering. But despite this, he was still friendly and polite, being well-aware of his position in society, which had earned him the respect of many high-standing persons.

Thus, with both the McCartney sons being at the age of marriage, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when Mr McCartney sent his eldest to have his official portrait done, one that was worthy of an heir of such an estate. But it hadn’t been the news that Mr Paul McCartney was waiting in their art studio that had shocked him, having expected that to happen for some time now, but his master’s decision that he was going to be the one to make the man’s acquaintance and paint his portrait.

“You want me to do this?” John asked, his jaw slack in surprise as he stared at his master, not believing what he was hearing. Mr Edwards, however, nodded as he let out a deep sigh.

“Believe me, John. If there was another way, I wouldn’t have asked this of you, but Mr McCartney insisted that we’d start as soon as possible. For what reason, he wouldn’t say, but he assured me it is important enough that he cannot wait two or three weeks longer until I’ve returned. Under normal circumstances, I would have postponed either one of the appointments, but I am afraid I cannot do that. I have no other choice.”

“But, sir! I can’t do this. Have you forgotten Mrs Davis’s reaction when she came here for her portrait three days ago? She was about ready to cut my head off!” John objected, feeling his heart thump in his chest in fear, knowing that if the same were to happen with the McCartney portrait, he would not get off as easily as he had done with Mrs Davis. Mr Edwards shook his head.

“What Mrs Davis said to you isn’t of the issue here, John. You are talented, you have a fine hand, and a good eye for detail – perhaps a little too good in Mrs Davis’s case, but this is the young Mr Paul McCartney whose portrait you’ll be painting! He is a fine, handsome young man, no matter what you might say about his personality. It will be a good exercise for you. You’re my best student, John. I wouldn’t ask this of you, if I thought you weren’t ready. I would be digging my very own grave while engaging in small talk with the grim reaper himself, if I did that.”

“I know, sir. I just don’t think-“ John started, but Mr Edwards wouldn’t let him speak, interrupting him again.

“Please, John. I have no other choice. As long as you work diligently and with a steady hand, you will be fine. You only have to remember your place and his, answer politely to whatever questions he might have, not talk back at him, and remain the perfect image of the English gentleman, and you’ll be fine, I am sure,” he assured him, but John’s worries were not in the least bit assuaged by his words.

“The perfect image of the English gentleman?! With all due respect, sir, but have you seen me? I am far from being “the perfect image of the English gentleman”. A pig in a suit might do a better job than I!”

“John, I know your aunt, and I know she raised you to be a proper young man, so that is not an excuse, you hear? I promise, I will assist you once I return, but until then I need you to do this for me, and for that I beg of you to please be civil with the young Mr McCartney. You don’t want either him or his father against you, understand? And if you mess this up, it won’t be just your own name you will be spoiling, remember that,” Mr Edwards said in a firm voice, making it more than clear to his student that he barely had any choice in the matter. This was the way it had to be if neither of them wanted to get into trouble. John gave in with a deep sigh and nodded as he muttered a “yes, sir”, giving into his master’s wishes with reluctance. Mr Edwards nodded in return, a relieved smile pulling at his lips.

“Thank you, John. I am sure you’ll do well. Now, Mr McCartney is waiting for you in the studio. I thought it best for the two of you to get to know each other in private and make your own agreements on how the process will go. And please, John, remember to be civil. I know you like to push boundaries and challenge authority, but this is not the time to do that. You must make yourself agreeable to him.” John swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat at those words, but nodded anyway, knowing he had no choice but to do as he was told, even if he didn’t like it. If Mr Edwards said there was no other option, then there was no other option; he would never allow him to come anywhere near the McCartneys if he didn’t have to, fearing that he would run his mouth by accident. And besides, how hard could it be? They were only people, even if they were fortunate, arrogant pricks, who had too much money to fit in all of their pockets combined and too much power to abuse.

“John, do you promise you’ll make yourself agreeable to him? I need to have your word on this one,” Mr Edwards asked again, a nervous tremor in his voice that John had only ever heard before on maybe two or three occasions. He nodded in return.

“I promise, sir.”

“Good. Good boy. Now, remember what you have to do and do not ruin this. One mistake and you’re done for – no, _we_ are done for. This is a one-time opportunity, John. Something like this won’t happen a second time. This assignment, it isn’t just for me. I know you want to become a great artist, and we both know the McCartneys have enough money and influence to make that happen for you, but you have to behave, however hard it might be.”

“I promise, sir,” John repeated and with one last nod, Mr Edwards guided him to the door that lead through to the art studio, where Mr Paul McCartney would be waiting for them. John couldn’t help but feel excited. After all, not everyone had the privilege to make acquaintance with any of the McCartneys.

The art studio was a large room on the first floor of the townhouse they were situated at. It consisted of what had once been the living room and the dining room, stretching all the way from the front of the house to the back, allowing plenty of light to flood in through the windows at either side. There were two doors that lead into the room, one coming off from the hall, and the other leading to a small kitchen at the back. The scuffed paint-stained wooden flooring was largely covered by rugs or sheets of paper. Blank canvases stood along the walls, between worktables and shelves with all kinds of painting equipment on there, like brushes – both used and clean ones – bottles of paint in all colours, cups with dirty water for cleaning said brushes, palette knifes, pieces of coal for sketching, and scraping tools. Above them hung paintings, sketches, and portraits, that showed off the skills of the artists that worked there. A couple of easels were placed all around the room, most of them overlooking an empty chair or stool on which a model could sit. In the middle of the room, which was the darkest part of the studio, two sofas were placed along the walls opposite each other, a coffee table between them. On one of them sat a handsome young man, who John presumed was Mr Paul McCartney.

“Mr McCartney, allow me to introduce my best student, John Lennon. John, this is Paul McCartney,” Mr Edwards said as they walked into the room and over to the young gentleman on the couch, who looked up at the sound of his voice and rose to stand. When they were near enough, he offered John his hand, which he shook as he looked him up and down, a fake smile on his lips. He was handsome, John had to admit, and he even had something pretty about him. Although he was a couple of years younger than him, he was slightly taller, forcing John to look up at him, if only a little. What struck him the most, were his eyes; he had large doe eyes with a gorgeous hazel colour that seemed to shift from green to brown right before his eyes as he looked into them. Above them, his eyebrows were perfectly shaped and arched. He had chubby cheeks and a small pouty mouth with full pink lips.  Overall, he was slim and had good posture. He was well-dressed, although somewhat ostentatiously, in a dark blue three-piece suit, complete with a silver-coloured tie, which was perfectly tailored to his form, accentuating all the right bits and angles, and covering what needed to be covered. He had dark brown hair that stood off against his pale complexion. It was parted to the side, his locks curling ever so slightly, and for a brief moment John found himself struggling to look away. When the man started to speak, he found himself even more taken with this beauty of a man, his sing-song voice sending shivers down his spine, liking the hint of scouse in his otherwise perfect accent.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Lennon. I’ve only heard positive things from your master, so I don’t doubt this will go perfectly between us,” Mr McCartney said, and although the words were friendly, the way he said them made it feel forced, as if it was only an act, learned and perfected over the many years he had been doing these things. John fought the urge to be provocative and smiled back at him instead.

“Likewise, sir,” he said and he could almost feel how relieved Mr Edwards was with that reply.

“Well,” he said, looking from Paul to John and back again, his eyes finally resting on Paul, “I shall leave you to it, then. I’m afraid I have some other business to attend to, but don’t be afraid to call on the maid if you need anything. Although, I don’t think that will be necessary. You’ll be in good hands with my student here, I’m sure. Please, send your father my wishes.” He shook the man’s hand and wished them both goodbye, before turning and leaving the two young man alone in the studio. Once they were alone, John took a deep breath to calm himself, before turning back to his new client.

“Please,” he said as he motioned to the couch, “have a seat.” Paul did as he was asked, and sat back down as he took his cup of tea from the coffee table, before sitting back with his legs crossed and taking a polite sip. John took a seat on the couch opposite him and pushed his glasses further up his nose, feeling rather nervous now they were alone. He watched the other man carefully as he searched for words, but Paul beat him to it and spoke first.

“I take it your master explained what is expected of you?” he asked as he finished his tea. He glanced up to look John directly in the eye, clearly trying to assert his dominance with that look. John forced himself not to look away and shook his head.

“Barely,” he replied, “he told me it concerns a portrait, but that is rather obvious.” He had expected the younger man to at least smile at that, but he didn’t. Instead, he put his cup back down on the coffee table and licked his lips before he spoke again, explaining exactly what was expected of him in the finest details, from the size of the canvas – it had to fit in with the other family portraits, after all – to the colour palette, to certain details he liked the portrait to contain and what he wanted to be left out, to the exact moment when father and son expected it to be finished. The amount of information John was given in that moment without any previous warning, made him wish he had been able to take notes.

“Of course, this date is not fixed, but we would like it if you could get it done as close to that as possible. My father especially is very strict about that. Of course, this should give you enough time to do the work, so we expect the portrait to be of the highest quality, as you can image. Now, I suspect you would want me to sit for you, which is fine of course, but as I am rather busy, I’d like us to meet here in the evenings. If you don’t mind, that is.” John faked another smile in reply as he shook his head, knowing enough about the McCartneys to know that he did not have any real say in the matter without any viable objections, objections that he did not have.

“Not at all.”

“Good. What would suit you best?” Paul asked and John pretended to think for a short moment before answering.

“We could start on Wednesday evening next week? I’d like to see how it goes before we make any more agreements on how often I’d like you to be here,” he said, still fighting the urge to say something witty and rude to this clearly conceited man. It was a shame his personality was so rotten in comparison to his looks. He hadn’t smiled a single time yet, nor had he made any attempt to lighten the mood with some small talk or a joke, focusing instead solely on the business side of things. He had barely even moved; he just sat there, with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap, one resting in the other. At times he could catch glimpses of that charm that everyone kept talking about, such as his polite tone of voice and his careful choice of words, but it was clear that he did not deem him worthy of the efforts it would take. Then again, why would he? He was only an employee, after all, hired for money to do a job no matter how friendly or rude he was to him. There was no need be charming.

“Yes, that could work just fine. How about after dinner? I take it you have no other engagements?”

“Oh no, after dinner would be fine,” John replied, not surprised Paul would think he had no other engagements. After all, why would he, right? He was only an employee. Nobody important. The longer he sat with this man and talked to him, the more frustrated he got with him, his pretty face not even giving enough distraction anymore for him to put up with the man himself. In the end, he had to say something, just to see if he could get any kind of reaction out of this man.

“There is, however, one thing,” he said, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smirking and giving himself away. As he had expected, the young man before him looked up with quirked eyebrow, waiting for John to elaborate, not having expected him to say anything other than “yes, sir” and “certainly, sir”.

“It is nothing too important, but if I am going to paint your portrait, I’d like to do that under my rules,” John added, looking the older man directly in the eye as he waited for a response, eager to see his reaction. Paul remained silent for a moment to think about his words, before he replied.

“And what might these rules be, if I may ask?” he asked, still sounding cool and composed, which frustrated John a little, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

“Firstly, while we work, you will have to do as I say. What pose to take on, how to look, where to look, how to sit, and when to move. I need to be able to create the perfect look to sketch from, or it won’t be half as good. You can, of course, bring in your own views and ideas, but you will need to give me enough freedom to do as I see fit,” John said and to his surprise Paul nodded.

“Of course. You are the artist. I trust your view and judgements on these type of things,” he said, and John’s lips twitched in annoyance, but again, he did not give in.

“Secondly, I say when we work and for how long and when we have our breaks. I need to keep my focus and not be interrupted when I am working,” he said and again Paul nodded in agreement.

“As long as I can say when we call it a day, that should be no problem.”

“I would also like us to use first names when we speak to each other,” John said, hoping that would at least get him some kind of reaction that he was hoping for. Paul fell silent at that, his mouth hanging slightly open as he blinked at John, his mind trying to comprehend that sentence.

“That’s…” he stuttered after a short while, his mind still struggling to process the information, “highly unusual. Not to mention inappropriate, _Mr Lennon_.” He accentuated that last, but that only made it more entertaining for John, who was feeling rather proud about putting this man off like that.

“I work better that way, sir. By addressing my client by their first name, I feel I know them better and I can give the portrait a more personal touch. All great art has some kind of personal touch, wouldn’t you agree? If you would like me to deliver my best work, I am afraid this is a requirement,” he lied, and Paul sat up straight at that, taking on a rather defensive demeanour, and distancing himself from John even more than he already was.

“Is it, really?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“I suppose we shall see then, won’t we, _Mr Lennon_?” he said and with that he rose up from the couch and took his coat, which he had hung from the armrest of the couch, and pulled it on. John watched him with a little grin as he moved, appreciating the elegant way he moved, even when he was looking rather annoyed. When he turned back to him, John got up as well and offered him his hand. Paul glanced at it, but refused to shake it, so John refused to take it back.

“I hope, Mr Lennon, that you are well aware that if there is one thing I, or my father for that matter, do not like about this arrangement, we will find someone else for the job. You are in no position to negotiate with me, let alone push any boundaries, you understand?”

“Don’t worry, Paul. If there is anything you do not like about how things are going between us, you only have to say so and I’ll see what I can do about it,” John replied, and Paul narrowed his eyes at him, but didn’t say anything about the use of his first name. Finally, he shook John’s hand, and his lips even twitched up into a tiny fraction of a smile for a brief moment, something John hadn’t seen before. It was then, that he decided he was going to try to make that happen more often now they would see each other probably a couple of days a week, hoping that one day he might see his full smile.

“I’ll give you a chance, Mr Lennon. But one mistake, and I won’t think twice about finding someone else for the job, and people will know just how Mr Edwards and his students treat their clients,” he told him and John nodded with a polite smile, feeling up for the challenge.

“I am certain it will not come to that, Mr McCartney,” he spoke and Paul looked at him in surprise at that, “it was good to meet you and I suppose I’ll be seeing you next Wednesday, then?”

“Yes… till then, I suppose. I have already discussed the matter of payment with your master, so there will be no need for you to worry about that. All the money will go through him. I’ll er… see you next Wednesday then, John,” he said and turned around to walk away, not waiting for John to show him the way out, and John followed him with his eyes, a now constant grin on his lips. He only realised the man had called him “John” when he heard the front door fall shut, leaving him alone in the middle of the studio, where he stared at the door through which Paul had disappeared. It was only when the maid called out his name, that he snapped out of it.

“Are you feeling alright, Mr Lennon?” she asked and John hummed at that as he forced himself to look away from the door and back at the girl who stood at the other end of the room, a silver tray with a teapot and two teacups in her hands. She was young, about seventeen, with rather short blond hair. She had her head cocked questioningly to the side.

“Did Mr McCartney leave already, sir? I thought he might like some tea,” she added as she nodded at the tray in her hands, looking somewhat disappointed.

“Oh yes. He did. Er… you can leave that here. Thank you, Dot,” he told her and the maid nodded at that, as she put the tray down on the coffee table and left again with Paul’s old cup. When she pulled the door to the kitchen close behind her, John let himself fall back onto the couch with a deep sigh, the eldest of the McCartney sons still very much on his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

The days passed slowly as John waited for that following Wednesday evening to come with both a feeling of dread and excitement. Dread, for the large part because he feared what Paul might do if he had indeed pushed it too far with the rule of using first names to address one another – a rule that was utter nonsense and he had only come up with to poke at the man’s nerves a bit – and fearing every time when Mr. Edwards called his name that a complaint had been made about him. So far that hadn’t happened yet, but John was well aware such a request had been inappropriate of him and felt rather ashamed to have betrayed his master’s trust in him like that. Moreover, his master’s reminders that the McCartneys were not to be messed with were still strong in his mind, as were the threats made by the McCartney son himself upon leaving. Even the reminder that he had addressed him by his first name as well did little to assuage John’s nerves, causing him only to doubt if he hadn’t misheard him in the first place.

Yet, the fact that his master hadn’t yelled any profanities at him or tried to make him leave, told John no complaint had been made so far, and with each passing day he grew more and more confident that it wouldn’t happen and that he was safe for now. He couldn’t afford to get fired, not with the situation his aunt was in at the moment, which he knew he should have thought of before he had started to push boundaries and risk his job, but John couldn’t help but also feel a little proud that he had gotten away with it, the snobbish twat having deserved it.

At the same time, it was this last that made him feel rather excited for that coming Wednesday evening, wondering how Paul would take if it he were to actually call him by his first name and wanting to see his reaction. He looked forward to do some actual work too; the man’s pretty features, he suspected, would prove to be both a pleasure and a challenge to draw, and John looked forward to that, hoping to improve himself and his art in the process and impress the younger man. After all, he was an artist at heart, and he could hardly refuse the opportunity to draw someone like him, considering his usual clients were rather unpleasant-looking with hardly any notable features to speak of – saying they were plain would be a polite understatement. It was going to be a pleasure, that is, as long as the man would keep silent for most of the time.

Rolling over in his little bed, he pulled the thin covers a little higher up to his chin, not feeling like getting up just yet, despite Mr. Edwards having awoken him what must have been about twenty minutes ago. He could hear him in the room above his, stumbling around and muttering things to himself as he packed his suitcases and got ready for the journey ahead. He was supposed to leave today, before lunch, and would not return until at least two weeks later, probably longer, depending on how his work would go. He often had little trips like these, which meant John would be left in charge of the business for as long as he was away. It didn’t worry him, however, having done it before, and the job not entailing much, seeing as most of the things he could leave until Mr. Edwards returned. What did worry him a little, however, was that he wouldn’t be there for the coming meetings with the eldest McCartney son, not being sure if he could trust himself to remain civil with him and his family. But he had no other choice, as Mr. Edwards had made more than clear.

After a few moments longer of dozing in and out of sleep, John sat up in his bed and stretched himself out with a yawn, before reaching for his glasses on the dresser that stood beside his bed in the little room he occupied, and slipping them on his nose. He ruffled his hair, threw his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to stand, blindly reaching for his clothes, which he had hung from the chair by his desk the night before, and got dressed. He shaved himself in front of the mirror and did his hair, before going downstairs where he disappeared into the kitchen and made himself some tea and eggs on toast for breakfast, the maid having her one day off on Mondays. He sat down at the breakfast table while he ate, keeping his ears perked to hear if Mr. Edwards would come downstairs, ready to rush into the studio itself and pretend to be hard at work if needed. But Mr. Edwards remained upstairs, so John finished his breakfast at his own pace, before cleaning up and joining Stuart in the studio to do some work about an hour later than he normally would.

“Morning, John! Glad to see you’ve decided to do some work as well. I feared you had decided normal work wasn’t worth your valuable time,” a scrawny young man greeted him as he stepped inside. He stood by one of the easels, a couple of used brushes in his hand, which was already covered in paint – he even had a smudge of dark green on his cheek. He was small, quite a few inches shorter than John himself, but handsome nonetheless, with sharp cheekbones, well-defined lips, a slender neck, and hair as black as coal. He smiled at John as he waited for a response, and started chuckling when John grumbled a rude remark back at him.

“Cheery as always, I see,” he muttered, and turned back around to gather more brushes that were lying around, before walking over to one of the work tables to clean them.  

“Need any help with those?” John asked.

Stuart nodded. “Please. I promised Mr. Edwards to have them clean before the weekend, but I forgot to do them. Could you bring a towel of some sort to dry them off with?” he asked as he started scrubbing them clean in a mixture of water and foul-smelling chemicals. John grabbed a towel from the kitchen, before joining his colleague at the table.

“Thanks, John,” Stuart said as he took the towel from him, and started rubbing the few dry that he had already cleaned, so John could clean the others and hand them to him. They worked together in silence for a while, both feeling comfortable just being around each other and not saying anything, the only thing they could hear being the stumbling of their master upstairs, the sloshing of the water, and the scrubbing of the paper towels against the paintbrushes.

“A letter arrived for you, by the way,” Stuart spoke when they had almost finished their work, and John looked up at him with a surprised hum.

“Really?”

“Yes. I don’t know who it’s from, but I guess it’s from Richard, judging by the messy handwriting. I put it on the mantelpiece for you if you wish to read it.”

“It would be nice to know he’s still alive. Thank you, Stu,” John said, and hurried to finish the last two paintbrushes, before drying his hands with some dry paper towels and walking over to the mantelpiece. An envelope laid on top of it, as Stuart had said, and the address was indeed written in Richard’s hand, messy and large, which was more caused by the presumed rocking of the ship on the rough waves of the sea than his own sloppiness. Eager to read what it said, John opened the letter and started to read the whole thing right away, his eyes moving quickly over the page.

“How long has he been gone, did you say?” Stuart asked. “He’s been away so long, I can hardly remember wishing him goodbye. The poor lad… I couldn’t do what he does, you know, spending day after day with the same people on the same ruddy ship, taking orders of some fat officer or captain, for months on end… Mr. Edwards can be strict, but I would not like to find out what such captains are like if we are to believe Richard’s stories.”

“Four months, two weeks, and six days… I believe,” John muttered in reply as he continued to read the letter. He could hear Stuart’s footsteps approaching behind him, but he didn’t pay it much attention, Richard’s words being much more important to him at this moment in time. When he got to the end of the letter, he sighed in disappointment and folded the letter back up and put it away in the inside pocket of his blazer.

“So? What did it say?” Stuart asked as John turned around, looking rather surprised by John’s glum demeanour, his expression hardened and cold. “Not good?”

“Richie says he ought to be back in a week, maybe two. The weather gives them a strong wind, so everything should continue as is planned. It was only a routine trading mission after all, so they do not expect any trouble on their way back,” John said, pushing past the older man and back to the work table to put the brushes back where they belonged, ignoring the way Stuart kept staring at him.

“But that is good, isn’t it? He must be happy to come home after so long. Seeing Maureen again, before he’s being shipped off once more for who knows how long? Hell, seeing us again! You know… his friends,” he asked, and John nodded as he forced a smile.

“Yes! Yes, of course. Don’t mind me too much, Stu. I haven’t been able to sleep too well last night. Say, you’re not here on Wednesdays, are you?”

“No. No, I have Wednesdays off.”

“Oh, good. That is good,” John said as he put the last of the brushes away and moved to sit down in front of one of the sketches he had been working on for a client’s portrait. He picked up a piece of charcoal and continued his sketch, being well aware of Stuart’s eyes that were still on him, a light smirk pulling at his lips.

“Why’s that good? You haven’t found yourself a girl to entertain, have you?” Stuart asked, and John laughed at that as he shook his head, giving his friend a firm look from the corner of his eye, his hand not stopping its movements on the canvas.

“Sadly not, Stu. My aunt would be much happier if that was indeed the case though, but I’m afraid I will have to disappoint her once more. It is only work.””

“Perhaps that is her own fault if she keeps holding onto the same improbable hopes and wishes after twenty-four years of having to live with you.”

“In her defence, Stu, for her it is _only_ twenty-one years.”

“Oh, I apologise. That makes all the difference,” Stuart said with a wink and John chuckled as he shifted his focus back to his work, glad to have been able to guide his friend’s attention away from his plans for Wednesday evening.  He wasn’t certain why, but he didn’t want to tell Stuart anything about his new assignment and his meetings with Paul McCartney, which in a way was odd. For as long as John had known him, Stuart had shown to harbour a strong dislike for the man, much stronger than anyone else John knew. Where it came from, John didn’t know - he doubted Stuart even knew – but it would have been nice to talk to him about him and make fun of the arrogant prick, even just as a way to vent, so he could control his frustration a bit better around the man himself as they’d work on the portrait,but for some reason – a reason, John couldn’t quite put his finger on – he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t feel like listening to Stuart’s insults, his vile words of anger and scorn, his cold mocking laughter, or his biting jokes. It didn’t feel right. So, for the moment, he thought it best not to bring it up. If anything, it would only agitate Stuart, which wouldn’t make any of this more pleasant.

John and Stuart worked diligently for the largest part of the morning, only taking breaks to get something to drink or excuse themselves to use the bathroom, and spent most of the time talking and joking to keep their spirits high as they worked on their respective portraits. To John, it felt good to get some work done, his mind stepping away from the thought of Paul for the first time in the last few days, and instead allowing him to think of something else for a change. It was only when they heard knocking on their front door that they stopped their work for longer than a minute or two. The two men turned to look at each other at the sound, and listened closely to hear if Mr. Edwards would come downstairs to get it, but when they didn’t hear anything, John got up from his stool and went to get the door, telling Stuart to stay.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by an older man with greying hair and a wrinkly, yet fallen in face, wearing a top hat and spectacles. His suit was completely black, and he was wearing a long coat. Behind him, John saw a coach with two horses waiting.

“Mr. Edwards?” the man with the spectacles asked, angling his head to the side as he awaited an answer. John frowned at that.

“No, sorry. Mr. Edwards is upstairs. I’m John Lennon, his er… apprentice.”

“Oh! That must be Mr. Edwards’s coach, John! He did mention they were coming before he disappeared upstairs. I’ll go get him,” Stuart called at him from inside the house, and John nodded in understanding as he smiled at the strange man before him. Behind him, he could hear the thumping of Stuart’s boots on the stairs as he hurried up the stairs to their master’s bedroom.  

“He’ll be right down, Mr.…?”

“Barkley, sir. Please, tell your master not to hurry. We have a long ride ahead, so there is no need to make any haste,” Mr. Barkley answered, and John nodded again at that. He wanted to say something in return, but before he could think of anything, his master’s loud and booming voice came down from the stairs, ordering him to come up and help him carry his luggage down, which made him groan internally.

“Would you please wait here for a moment, Mr. Barkley? He’ll be down with you shortly,” John asked, and as soon as the man nodded in reply, he pushed the door close, but kept it slightly ajar,so they could open it without much trouble when they’d be carrying the suitcases down. He hurried up the stairs to his master’s room where Mr. Edwards and Stuart were, trying to close the last suitcase by having Stuart sit on top of it while the other attempted to shut it. The other suitcase stood in the corner of the room by the bed, with a separate bag with art supplies lying beside it. With a little more effort, they got the last suitcase to close as well, and John and Stuart carried the cases down, as Mr. Edwards followed them, carrying his bag of art supplies, while shouting at them not to drop anything or they’d have to pay for it themselves. Thankfully, and John meant this as he was having it hard enough with the little amount of money he made with his work, they managed to make it down without any accidents or calamities.

They handed the cases to Mr. Barkley, who carried them to the coach, and waited as Mr. Edwards made his acquaintance and they discussed some last things with the driver, which neither of the two young men could make out, the coach being too far away from them. When he walked back to them, they offered him a smile and wished him a pleasant journey.

“Thank you, boys. Now remember, John, you’re in charge here until I come back in a week or two, maybe three. And Stu, make sure he does not cause any trouble, would you?” Mr. Edwards said, and John rolled his eyes at that, but Stuart nudged him in the side as a warning as he nodded, so John did the same as him, albeit against his will. He didn’t cause _that_ much trouble, did he? “Good, and if either of you need anything, you can always write me. I left the address on the kitchen table, but I assume you two will be fine on your own for a short while.”

“Yes, sir. You needn’t worry about us. We will be fine,” Stuart said.

“I thought so.” Mr. Edwards nodded, before turning to John, looking him straight in the eye. “John, could I still have a brief word with you? It’s nothing serious.”

“Yes. Of course, sir,” John said, somewhat confused as to what he might want to discuss with him. Mr. Edwards nodded and shook both their hands and wished them all the best as he said them goodbye, before taking John by his shoulder and guiding him away from the other man. John followed him closely. They stopped just outside the townhouse, so they were out of Stuart’s hearing distance. ****

“John,” Mr. Edwards said, catching John’s eyes to make sure he would make himself clear. “I know I have told you this before, but _please_ be civil towards the McCartneys. One mistake could mean the end, you understand me?” John nodded as he swallowed the lump in his throat, remembering Paul’s warning about him pushing boundaries far too well.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“I know you can do this, John. I just don’t want you to do something you might regret. These men are powerful; they could ruin you with a flick of their wrist. Please, do not forget that.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“It’s better if you keep a safe distance from them, John. Don’t give away too much and don’t get too close, you hear?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep my distance,” John promised, feeling a sweat break out on his forehead, but he managed to remain composed and Mr. Edwards seemed to buy every uttered word. He smiled at John and patted him encouragingly on the back, before turning around and walking back towards the coach. When he was close enough, Mr. Berkley opened the door for him and helped him inside, before getting inside as well. Stuart came to stand next to John and together they waved their master off, both with a smile on their face, one genuine, the other forced. John felt somewhat envious of Stuart, wishing he could feel be just as oblivious and light-hearted as he was about the thing with the McCartneys. Instead, Paul was back on his mind again, making him feel restless and nervous **.** He wished Wednesday would come already, wanting it to be over and be certain he hadn’t ruined anything yet. How Mr. Edwards had talked him into this exactly, John couldn’t remember anymore, but he wished he hadn’t let him.

 

***

 

The last days before Wednesday went by a bit faster than the days before, John being busy enough with his work and keeping the business running; it was always more work than he first anticipated it to be. But he didn’t mind so much, the work keeping his mind off the McCartney family and his new assignment. In the evenings, he was often so exhausted that he hardly had any time to think about the handsome snob and fell into a deep dreamless slumber the moment he closed his eyes. Between work, he had even managed to find some time to have dinner with his Aunt Mimi that Tuesday evening, having been wanting to see her again for a while now. He had missed her since he had moved into the small room above the art studio to be closer to work, and it had been wonderful to see her again and see she was doing well enough on her own.

Still, that Wednesday evening did not come as a surprise to him, having been anticipating it for too long to forget what day it was completely. The day went by as per usual: he woke up, got dressed, had breakfast, did some sketching and refining on a few of his works, sorted out the letters that had arrived for Mr. Edwards, and answered what he could, before his first client of the day came in to sit for and inspect her portrait. The client didn’t prove to be much trouble, the woman being rather undemanding and easy to impress. Half-way through the sessions, Cynthia came in, a young woman, though almost a year older than he was, from a well-off family like himself, who was also an artist, and the only female student of Mr. Edwards. John had already known her long before that though, having been friends with her for a long time, before his aunt had decided they ought to get married, something neither of them had wanted. They had remained friends of course, but stayed out of Mimi’s way, not wanting to get the wrong impression across. She worked little but diligently, focusing on her own art the most, and was great to be around and spent time with. John was glad she had in come that afternoon, the studio being awful lonely without either Stuart or Mr. Edwards around.

He spoke with Cynthia as they worked on their respective works, but for the large part they sat in silence together, both being able to focus better when they weren’t trying to uphold a casual conversation about nothing in particular, not wanting to talk about anything of depth with a strange woman in the room with them. The only downside was that this silence gave John enough time and space in his mind to let his thoughts wander, and in this case they wandered back to the eldest McCartney son. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to draw him as he worked on the portrait of the woman before him, letting his eyes study her features which he would then try his best to mimic in his sketch **,** and could hardly wait to see how the first sketches of him would turn out. When he caught himself staring the woman for a few seconds longer than had been needed, having been lost in thought, he quickly averted his eyes, and tried not to wonder what Paul would do when he’d do that while working on his eyes. The man had gorgeous eyes, droopy like a puppy’s and with an extraordinary colour, of brown, both light and dark, as well as an array of different shades of green; choosing the colours for that would be a great challenge. He’d try his best, of course, hoping that Paul would like what he would create for him. Would he smile if he liked it? A full on smile, showing all of his teeth as his chubby cheeks would puff up and the corners of his eyes would crinkle? He was only wondering for aesthetic reasons, of course.

After the client left, John and Cynthia sat together, both practising and improving their skills, using the other as a model, as they spoke of whatever came into their mind, except, again, John’s new client. He wasn’t certain what Cynthia’s actual opinion of him and the family was, but he didn’t want to find out, suspecting it would not be a good one. At the end of the afternoon, she said goodbye and told him to come visit to have dinner soon, before leaving John alone in the studio, apart from the maid Dot, but she was busy with her own work, so John grabbed a book from one of the bookshelves in the house and sat himself down on one of the couches in the art studio and read for a while, letting himself fall into this different world and escape the current one, even if it was only a psychological escape. It wasn’t even fully that, as he kept checking the time to see how long he still had until Paul would show up.

Around six-ish, Dot called John into the kitchen for dinner, which she had made, and John went over to her as soon as he heard her say “food”, throwing the book carelessly onto the couch, feeling incredibly peckish. As he sat down, he told her to do the same and join him, eager for a conversation to numb his nerves, but she refused.

“I’m sorry, sir. I still need to clean the bathroom and dust your room. I will eat afterwards, if you don’t mind?”

“No. No. Of course not, Dot. Go ahead. And remember, when Mr. McCartney arrives here after dinner, I do not wish to be disturbed by anyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that includes you.” Dot blinked a few times at that, before she pulled herself together and nodded, before excusing herself, seeming rather disappointed with his request. John sighed and decided not to pay it any mind as he grabbed the newspaper of that day and read while he ate, trying not to think of a certain someone that would soon ring his doorbell. As it happened, though, his doorbell rang a lot sooner than he had anticipated. He wasn’t even half-way through his food.

“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?” he could hear Dot’s voice coming from the hallway, followed by the familiar sing-song voice that spoke in that attractive mixture of posh and scouse.

“I’m here to see, Mr. Lennon, my dear. He should be expecting me,” the voice said, sounding flirtatious, and John froze in his seat. It was only when Dot answered in a giddy voice that he jumped up and hurried to the front door to interrupt them, not liking the flirtatious tone in Paul’s voice as he spoke to Dot.

“And what’s your name, sir?” Dot asked, but John was just in time and placed a protective hand on her shoulder, before the young man at the door could answer her. Dot jumped at the sudden touch and both turned their heads at him in surprise. For a brief moment, John could have sworn he saw a tiny fraction of a smile on the other man’s lips as he caught sight of him, but he could not be one hundred percent sure.

“It’s okay, Dot. I’ve been expecting Mr. McCartney. I’ll handle it from here, thank you,” John said, and Dot gave a curt nod, before excusing herself and going back upstairs to finish doing whatever she had been doing.

“Although I might say he is a tad bit too early,” John added once they were left alone, before he could stop himself. Paul’s face hardened as he looked him directly in the eye, his expression now much colder.

“I am never too early, Mr. Lennon,” he told him, and John offered him an apologetic smile, while cursing himself in his head for already having run his mouth.

“I thought we had said after dinner, sir. But that must have been my mistake then. Please, do come in. Let me take your coat,” he said, stepping aside to let the other man and offering him his hand to take his coat from him, in an attempt to be polite and assuage the situation somewhat. Mr. McCartney nodded and stepped inside, but ignored John’s hand as he had a quick look around to take in his surroundings, not making any movement to take of his expensive-looking coat – it was probably worth more than what John earned in a year, judging by the fabric and the perfect tailoring to make sure it flattered the man’s figure flawlessly. There was not a hair or a stain on it. It took John a second before he realised the man had started talking again.

“We did say after dinner, you are not mistaken. It is a quarter past six. That is after dinner in my books, Mr. Lennon.”

“Well, I’m a sorry sir, but I have not yet had my dinner. Would you mind waiting for a minute or five until I’ve finished? There is tea and wine if you’d like something to drink while you wait.” John offered as he looked the other man up and down, feeling rather under-dressed at the sight of him in his perfect suit, while he was only wearing a pair of beige trousers with paint stains all over them, and a ruffled white shirt and dark brown waistcoat that had seen better days. Paul was wearing a different suit from last time. This one was of a dark mossy green, with brown lapels, and dark brown trousers. The colours made his eyes stand out even more and made the man overall look warmer and more approachable. That is, until one would raise their eye to the man’s stone-cold expression that rested seemingly naturally on his features. The man scoffed at his words, but nodded as he slipped off his coat and handed it to John to put away.

“I suppose I hardly have any other choice. Tea would be fine, thank you. But please, Mr. Lennon, be on time next time.” It wasn’t a question, so John nodded as he did away with Paul’s coat, letting the fabric glide through his fingers, enjoying the incredible soft feeling of the rich material.

“I’ll do my best, Mr. McCartney. If you’d follow me,” John requested, and guided the man towards the kitchen, feeling how his palms were already sweating from the nerves. He was almost certain that Paul had come early on purpose, to pay him back for the first name rule from last time. But there was something Paul wasn’t aware of yet, and that was that two could play that game.

“By the way, Mr. Lennon. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your rule of calling each other by our first names?” Paul asked from behind him as he followed him on his heels, but John didn’t miss the amused tone in his voice, which only proved his suspicions; he was pestering with him. The thought made him grin.

“We haven’t started yet, Mr. McCartney. Not until you are seated on my stool. Don’t worry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the great support on the last chapter! You guys have been wonderful so far and it's great.   
> Also, just to let you guys know, I've made my decision on Paul's and John's sexual preferences in bed, but I'm not going to spoil that for you. Thanks for your thoughts on it, though. It was interesting to read ;) 
> 
> I am not sure how often I will post these chapters, as I will also start posting two others fics which I have already written, but I'd like to check those chapters for spelling and grammar mistakes before posting. Just to let you guys know. 
> 
> Thanks again for the kudos, comments and support so far!


	3. Chapter 3

The two young men sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, neither saying a word to the other person as John finished his food and Paul inspected his finger nails for the lack of having a better thing to do, keeping his head down and refusing to look up at the other man. John sat in his usual seat from where he could keep an eye on the kitchen door, which he had closed as to provide some privacy for the two of them, while Paul sat facing the window that overlooked the tiny garden at the back of the house, not that he bothered looking out of it, his nails being much more intriguing for some unknown reason John wasn’t aware of. Before him on the kitchen table stood his steaming hot cup of tea which John had given him as he had promised. His own food had almost gone cold because of the interruption, but he hardly minded, Paul’s presence giving him enough nerves that he considered it a miracle he could swallow anything down at all. From time to time, he would glance up at the man before him and study him, which he thankfully didn’t notice, seeing as he most likely looked like an idiot with the way he kept staring at him.

The man was just so beautiful, John found it difficult not to stare at him. His eyelashes, he noticed, were long and thick, curling up so beautifully that they seemed to rest on the man’s cheekbones as he looked down at his hands. His fingers were long and elegant and manicured to perfection in comparison to his own calloused fingers and his dirty chipped nails with bright-coloured paint underneath. He could imagine why Paul would consider him to be so much beneath him and unworthy of his valuable time, but rather than feeling disheartened by it, it frustrated him.

“Mr. Edwards asked me to tell you he is sorry for not having been able to take on this assignment himself. I know he would have preferred to, and if the other appointment hadn’t been as pressing as it was, he would have rescheduled it,” John said to break the tense silence between them. It was a lie, though. Mr. Edwards had asked him to do no such thing, but it felt like the correct thing to say in that moment. Besides, he wanted to elicit _some_ kind of reaction from him; his face seemed to have been made from stone, giving nothing away.

“Yes. Such a shame. I suppose we shall have to make do with the situation as it is,” Paul replied, not lifting his head to meet his eye. His lips hardly moved as he spoke.

“There must be quite some pressure to have this particular portrait done at a certain time, mustn’t there? Your father particularly seemed to think it inconceivable to wait another two weeks if it meant Mr. Edwards could do the picture himself.”

“There is no need for you to ask questions, Mr. Lennon. Certainly not about issues that do not concern you,” Paul warned, but John’s mind had already come up with a reply, which he voiced before his mind could have thought it through.

“On the contrary! Seeing as this urgency is the reason why I was given this opportunity in the first place, I would say it concerns me a great deal, wouldn’t you agree? And after all, I am responsible for delivering good quality work on time.”

“Hardly, Mr. Lennon. And your responsibility to deliver on the correct date, does not grant you permission to ask such questions, as I know you are well aware, let alone receive any answers to them.” For a few seconds it remained quiet between the two of them, both waiting for the other to continue their little disagreement, until at last Paul raised his eyes to look at him. As before, it was that extraordinary mixture of colours that took John by surprise, even if he had known what to expect beforehand. Yet, he managed to compose himself and not get distracted by those ever-changing kaleidoscope eyes. When Paul spoke, however, it took a moment before the words reached him. “This is an opportunity for you, then?”

“Yes. It is not often that I am offered a chance as this one to paint something of such importance and beauty,” John said in all honesty, before he had thought his answer through, and he tried not to blush or avert his eyes as he realised how that might have sounded. To his surprise, Paul looked rather taken aback by his answer and he gave a curt nod before looking back down at his nails as the corners of his lips twitched upwards. They seemed to be doing that a lot, as if he was trying to restrain himself and repress a smile, but it could have been his imagination. The man’s fingers, however, had a slight tremble in them as Paul moved to pick up his mug of tea and took a sip.

“Well, at least I am glad I can offer you something in return then, Mr. Lennon,” he muttered, taking one more sip as he gave John one last firm look, before he put his tea back down. John smiled at him in return, unsure of what had happened between them during their brief conversation, but having the vague idea it had been something good. Without another word, he ate some more of his dinner, before he pushed his plate away from him and rose up from his seat, leaving the left-overs for Dot to take care of after she had had her own dinner as well.

“Shall we get started then? If you are ready, of course,” John suggested and Paul replied by standing up as well and motioning John to lead him on without another word.

The atmosphere changed for the better as they stepped inside the studio, the situation now resembling that of their first meeting, and thus being more familiar for both of them. John felt the tension in his body ebb away as he guided Paul towards one of the easels at the back of the room, which would offer him the best light to work in. He hadn’t considered it before, but the evening light was weak this time of year and would only grow weaker as the days grew shorter, giving him little to work with. This wasn’t much of a problem now, seeing as he only needed to do some rough sketches first and discuss them with Paul, the evenings still being bright enough to allow him to do that without much trouble, but already he was not looking forward to asking Paul if they could reschedule some sessions to the afternoon in a couple of weeks’ time. He wasn’t certain how he would react, and besides, he liked the privacy the evenings offered them. For now though, that was not of import, and he was going to have to make do with what he had, until he had no other option but to ask Paul.

“Please, have a seat,” John said as he gestured at the chair that stood closest to the large window, and sat himself down on the stool before the easel that went with the chair. Paul looked doubtfully at the appointed chair, but sat down without comment. John ignored it and made some room for himself to work, before standing up to grab his sketchbook, a couple of pages of which he had cut into the appropriate size of the portrait according to the measurements Paul had given him on their first meeting, and gathered his sketching equipment. He placed the sketchbook on the easel and laid out the rest on a small table that stood beside it, so he could reach it with ease if he needed anything.

Paul had not moved or said anything while John had been walking around the studio, and simply sat there with his legs crossed, his hands in his lap, as he followed John with his eyes. When John caught him looking, he averted his eyes and turned his head to look out of the window. It had started to rain.

John made no comment about it and sat down on his stool, where he began to organise his things while keeping a close eye on the man before him, watching his every move, not matter how small, and every emotion that flickered over his features, however subtle, his mind working hard to form a picture of what he wanted to go for. He flipped through the pages of his sketchbook to get to the right page and played with a small piece of coal in his hand as he transcended into deep thought, letting it roll between his fingers. When there was a sudden loud thud of a door falling shut, Paul’s body jerked and his head shot towards the door, making John frown.

“That must be Dot,” he explained, “our maid. She always cleans the kitchen after I’ve finished dinner. I asked her not to disturb us. We’re alone.” Paul’s body visible slackened at his words and he nodded as he let out a sigh.

“I am sorry. I only-“

“I don’t need to know, Paul. You don’t need to tell me,” John said, surprised by the ease with which the man’s name rolled of his tongue, and Paul nodded once more. He did not seem to be bothered by the use of his first name. If anything, it seemed to calm him.

“Thank you,” he said, as he looked back down at his fingers, inspecting them as he had done in the kitchen. He looked different as he sat there, much less intimidating, but more intriguing, younger too without the superior gaze in his eyes, but he soon regained himself, and the coldness in his eyes was back as he lifted them to look at John.

“Not at all,” John replied, somewhat bemused by this, but he refrained from inquiring about it. “Now, let’s get to work, shall we?”

“Yes. I have been waiting long enough. How er… how do you want me?” Paul asked, his face returning to his usual stoic expression, although John could not help but feel there had been some kind of change in the man’s countenance, but he found it difficult to say what it was. He sat up a bit more and had another good look at the young man before him, glancing back at the blank sheet of paper every now and then, as if he was trying to see how his ideas would look on there. After a minute or two, he had a pretty good idea of what he wanted, and he took his piece of charcoal between his fingers, holding it loosely.

“Face me and turn your body a few degrees to your right, just so you are turned away from me a little and look to your left, I’d say… at the door that leads towards the hallway,” John instructed, narrowing his eyes as he watched Paul attempt to move his body in the position John wanted, following his directions the best he could, but not in the exact way John wanted.

“No, not that much. Turn your legs more towards me and keep his head raised. Maybe lift your eyes a bit. Yes, but not that much. Better. Now, don’t strain your body. I need you to be at ease, or you won’t be able to sit still for very long.” John watched with a careful eye as Paul moved again, but still there was something not quite right. “Eyes higher, please. Only your eyes. Lower your chin a tad bit. Straighten your back and push back your shoulders. Oh, and could you turn your hips a little more to the right, so your body turns in a smooth curve, please? Lay your hands in your lap. Keep them slack. Hmm… maybe turn your head a little more to the left. No… not quite like that” John huffed at Paul’s miserable attempts to assume the right position and got up from his seat, catching the man’s eyes as he moved. Paul looked up at him expectantly and watched as John approached him. When he was near enough, he swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat, and reached out for him with a careful smile.

“Do you mind?” he asked and Paul glanced at his hand for a moment, before shaking his head.

“No. I don’t mind,” he said, his voice sounding somewhat strained, and John knelt down in front of him, as he laid a careful hand on the man’s knee, trying his hardest to ignore the way his fingertips tingled as he touched him and moved them in the right position, telling Paul what to do with the rest of his body and guiding him every so often with feather-light touches, keeping them brief and barely there, feeling as if he were doing something inappropriate. It wasn’t the first time he had helped a client to sit in a certain way, but with Paul it felt different, as if wasn’t quite right. Bit by bit, he managed to model Paul’s lower body in the right position, and told Paul to hold his body like that, as he got to his feet and walked around his chair, so he was behind him. He took a deep breath, before laying his hands onto his shoulder and helping Paul sit up a bit more, while keeping the rest of his body in position, feeling how Paul’s muscles loosened as he fell into the right and comfortable position. It was only when John moved to kneel by Paul’s head and reached out to take his chin between his thumb and pointer finger, that he twitched at the touch, but he did not try to pull away, so John gently raised his chin up a bit as he locked eyes with Paul.

“Look at me and keep your head still,” he whispered and Paul did as he was asked as John perfected the man’s clothing and hair, before pulling away from him and trying to find another spot where Paul could look so his eyes were in the right position. Once he had found something, he told Paul to keep his eyes there, which he did without question. When John sat back down on his stool, Paul looked exactly the way he had wanted him to look. He rubbed his fingertips off on his trousers to stop them from tingling as he picked up his piece of charcoal again.

“Now, hold that pose, please,” John asked and smiled as he noticed how the corners of Paul’s lips curled up again for a moment, before he assumed his former expression. “You are allowed to blink and breathe, of course. If you need a break, just let me know,” John said and the younger man blinked as a reply, causing John to smirk, before he started to sketch, drawing quick but careful lines as his eyes darted from Paul to the sketch and to Paul again, feeling himself get lost in his work as his hand travelled over the page. As he had expected, the younger man was a pleasure to draw, his face having so many little details and small interesting features, he could spend hours trying to work out one particular part, perfecting it until he got it just right, and not get bored. They were challenging, but pretty.

He could not be certain how long they had been working when Paul began to move on occasion, but to John it felt as if it could not have been longer than ten minutes, although he knew it had to be more longer than that. At first, he ignored it, knowing it was often hard for people to stay still for longer periods of time in the same position, and the occasional twitch or nod or tapping with his foot or fingertips not being much of a problem, especially since it was only a sketch he was working on. Even when Paul ran a hand through his hair to push it back and out of his face, he did not object, but when his movements became more impactful, changing his position in ever so slight, but noticeable ways, he needed to say something of it, fearing he might mess up because Paul’s position no longer matched that of his sketch.

“Please, Paul. Try to sit still.”

“You know, you do say rather little for someone who insisted on calling me by my first name for a more personal touch. Not that you’re even using my first name, which is James in case you didn’t know,” Paul said, making John grin as their locked eyes for a moment, knowing he had a point. Still, the younger resumed his position almost perfectly without any extra help, and John continued his sketch.

“It does beg the question how personal this portrait will be if you hardly speak with the subject, does it not?” Paul asked in a teasing tone.

“It can be as personal as you want it be to, love,” John replied with a wink, hoping he did not push his luck too far with that little term of endearment, but instead of replying with irritation, Paul seemed happy with it, or rather he huffed at his words with a hint of amusement, and did not reply with anything negative, which John supposed was as good a reaction as any. They sat in silence a while longer, a more comfortable one than the ones before, and John managed to make quite some progress, only having to correct the other man for moving a few times more.

It was when the man started to slump in his chair, that John decided it would be a good time for a short tea break, to which Paul whole-heartedly agreed. John headed into the kitchen, where Dot was doing the dishes, having finished her own dinner a few minutes ago, and asked her to make them some tea. When he walked back into the studio, Paul was walking around for a bit, looking at all the portraits and other art works that hung on the walls, seemingly glad to be able to walk around for a bit. The moment he heard John come in, he turned around to face him.

“Dot will bring us some tea in a moment after she has finished the dishes,” John said as he sat back down on this stool to clean some of the stuff he had used and wipe his hands clean of the coal with a paper towel. Paul nodded in reply and walked over to him.

“Do you mind if I have a look?” he asked, gesturing at the easel. John, thinking it impolite to refuse, even if he usually did not like to show his art to anyone until he was happy with it, nodded and moved aside as Paul moved to stand behind him, giving him enough room to look over his shoulder, trying not to feel too affected by the warmth of Paul’s breath against his ear. He swallowed thickly.

“It is far from finished and only a sketch, but I think it is getting there, don’t you? The pose works well, at least,” John said after a few moments of silence and Paul hummed in reply.

“U-unless you don’t agree. I mean, you are the client. We can try something else if you do not like the look of it,” John said, Paul’s lack of response makes him feel self-conscious about his work. When Paul shook his head, he sighed in relief.

“No! No, it is er… it is good, actually. Your master was not exaggerating when he told me you were talented. I should thank you for making me look so handsome,” Paul told him and John could not help but smile like a fool at that, Paul’s compliments making his heart pound a little faster.

“I did not make you look handsome. I only paint what I see. It is what most clients do not like about me,” he said before he could stop himself, and he silently cursed himself for running his mouth like that, but Paul only hummed again, as he pulled away, finally allowing John to breathe regularly again. He looked up at the other man from the corner of his eye and saw he wanted to say something in return, but before he could, the door to the kitchen opened and Dot walked in, carrying a tray with two cups, a teapot and some biscuits. John shot up from his seat and Paul took a quick step away from him at the sight of her, both feeling as if they had been caught doing something wrong or inappropriate, even though such a suggestion was ridiculous.

“Dot! How lovely. You have met Mr. McCartney, haven’t you? Erm… if you could put that down on the coffee table, that would be fantastic, Dot,” John said. He looked away from her as he saw her eyes flicker towards the other man beside him, and picked up the dirty paper towels he had used to throw those away. She had made herself look pretty, John could see, but he preferred not to think about why.

“Yes, sir,” Dot replied and put the tray down as John had asked, keeping her eyes on Paul as she moved, before she disappeared through the door again, much to John’s relief.

“She is a pleasant girl, isn’t she?” Paul asked once the door had fallen close behind her. John hummed in reply.

“Yes, she is wonderful. Now, shall we get back to work?”

“What about our tea break?” Paul asked, but John waved the objection away.

“We can have it while we work. I would like to focus on your hair for a while, so you won’t have to sit as still as before. There should be no trouble.” He didn’t wait for an answer, and simply poured the tea, before taking one of the cups and sitting back down on his stool, where he waited for Paul to join him. The younger man, puzzled by this sudden decision, did as John had suggested and pick up his cup of tea as well, before sitting down in his chair again. They drank their tea and made some small talk as John perfected his sketch of Paul’s hair, glad that Dot wasn’t the subject of their conversation.

The remaining part of their session went by like this, the two of them making polite conversation as they drank their tea and John worked on the sketch, every once in a while stopping to ask Paul for his opinion and make some changes. Dot did not bother them again, and to John’s pleasure, she seemed to have vanished from Paul’s mind. Once the basic outline of the sketch was finished, they decided to call it a day, and decided to meet up again that Friday evening, so John could touch up the sketch and make a couple of artistic decisions before their next meeting.

“Just like today, I’ll come after dinner, Mr. Lennon. So I’d like you to be ready this time,” Paul said as John walked him to the front door so he could get him his coat. He refrained from laughing, having expected him to say something about that.

“Of course, sir. Although, I do have the strange feeling that you will be a couple of minutes later next time.”

“Back to ‘sir’ again, are we?”

“Unless you would prefer it to be something else,” John said with a cheeky little wink as he offered Paul his coat, slipping it over the man’s frame and allowing his fingertips to wander for a moment, before he was forced to step away. When Paul turned around to look at him again, he gave him a firm look, most likely meant as a warning of some kind, but John was certain he could see an excited twinkle in them.

“I suppose, I will see you this Friday evening then, Mr. Lennon,” Paul said, not responding to John’s remark on purpose, but John was more than willing to push the boundary a little further.

“I look forward to it, sir,” he said, sounding a little more flirtatious than he had meant it to sound, as he opened the door for the other man. It was still raining, but Paul’s carriage was already waiting outside. Right away, a man stepped out holding a umbrella and walked over to them, but Paul motioned him to wait at an appropriate distance.

“Flattery won’t get you far, Mr. Lennon. I can promise you that,” he told John, turning to him.

“I guess we shall see, won’t we?” John replied and Paul’s lips twitched up again, before he offered John a polite nod and walked over to the man outside, greeting him with a little nod, before the two men walked on to the carriage, sharing the umbrella to stay dry in the typical English weather. John remained standing in the doorway, watching as Paul climbed into the carriage, not once looking back at him, even when they drove off, but he didn’t mind so much. Not this time.


	4. Chapter 4

Friday came sooner than John had expected it to come, the days passing by in a haze as he worked on the sketch for the McCartney portrait as well as his own art. He spent hours contemplating and perfecting every little line he drew as he sat behind his small wooden desk in his bedroom, which he only left to use the bathroom, to get something to eat or drink, or to do some actual work in the studio downstairs when Stuart would force him to, having little motivation to do that last himself. Paul McCartney was simply a pleasure to draw, his features, countenance, and overall aura being exceptional and diverse enough to give John inspiration for dozens of art works, allowing him to keep envisaging new ideas and images; to keep changing the setting, the mood, the style, and the colour scheme; and to keep tweaking little details and highlight different aspects, leaving him with more unfinished works than any other subject had done in such a small period of time before, even if most of them ended up discarded on the floor. He struggled with the details, every little mistake, however minor, being like a thorn in his eye, which left him frustrated but determined to get it right the next time. His desk was filled with sheets of paper, some still empty, others with gorgeous sketches of the young man on them, and again others that were still unfinished, the last of which he used solely as a reference for the next attempt, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not get it right. Bawled up pieces of paper lay scattered across the floor, surrounding his desk and John himself as he worked.

As a consequence, Stuart was becoming more and more annoyed with him, not knowing who had set off this sudden surge of creativity and inspiration in John’s mind, and being both eager to find out as well as irritated at his inability to do anything other than draw, leaving him to do most of the work rather than take his responsibility. He had tried to catch glimpses of John’s work to see who his newly-discovered model was, but whenever he came too close for John’s liking, he would slide the papers out of his reach, or slap his hand away if he attempted to pick up one of the many balls of paper that lay discarded on the floor. On the rare occasion that he did leave the room, John made sure to lock his door so Stuart wouldn’t go snooping around in places where he did not want him to snoop. After a couple of futile attempts, Stuart had given up, insisting that John would tell him by himself after a while, even if John continued to deny this.

At the moment, he was sitting on his bed with his bedroom door shut to provide him some privacy while Stuart finished up some work in the studio downstairs before the start of the weekend. In his lap, propped up on his knees, he had his sketchbook, opened on a fresh white sheet where the beginnings of another sketch of Paul had started to form, the rough lines leaving the impression of the young man sitting in a dimly lit room reading a book, a large and loyal dog lying at his feet. Beside John, curled up against his thigh, lay his ink black cat, snoring softly as she slept. Every so often, while John pondered on his next move, he would scratch her behind her ear or let his fingers run through her shiny fur, making her purr. It was a quiet afternoon, and for a moment the anticipation of Paul’s next visit had left his mind, only to return soon after as he heard the clock chime five times.

Feeling less nervous than last Wednesday, John had to admit he somewhat looked forward to seeing Paul again, and was relieved they could do so once more in private like last time. Although he knew it was terrible of him, he had been more than a little relieved when Stuart had told him he would be having dinner with his parents that Friday evening, having been invited there by his mother who had sent him a letter a couple of days ago, thus leaving John by himself for the rest of the evening. He had feared he would have had to tell Stuart about his assignment and his new client, but with Stuart leaving early, he could put that conversation off a few days longer.

At first, Stuart had asked him to join him, hating to go alone, but John had been glad he had been able to use work as an excuse not to come with him, Stuart’s parents being two of the worst people he had ever met. His father especially was a dreadful man; he was drunk more often than not, which turned his language foul and jeering to anyone who spoke with him, and he would sometimes disappear for days without telling anyone where he had gone to or for how long, only to come back a few days later, pretending there was nothing wrong. His mother, unsure of how to deal with her husband when he was like that, often turned to Stuart to deal with her frustration, snapping at him and criticising everything he did, even going as far as blaming him for their troubles, while spending the little money they had on expensive tobacco to smoke. It is clear to see why Stuart had bought his own place as soon as he had been able to and preferred to visit them as little as possible.

When he did visit, he preferred to bring a friend for support, insisting that his parents were more polite when someone else was there as well, although John doubted that, having joined Stuart himself a few times in the past, and having experienced no such thing. Stuart had been disappointed by his refusal to come with him this time, but had instead invited someone else along who John felt was a much better choice for him. Astrid Kirchherr was a beautiful young German girl from a good family, about a year older than Stuart himself, whom he intended to marry as soon as he had earned enough money to support her. It would not be the first time she joined him, and was good at handling with people such as his parents. Besides, Stuart’s mother in particular did not want to ruin her son’s opportunity for a good marriage, and even his father could be considered polite when speaking with young women from good families, relatively speaking that is. Overall, John did not feel as bad as he could have felt about the whole ordeal, but he wished he was not as eager for Stuart to leave as he was.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings, and he put his work aside as he stretched out his legs, not wanting them to go numb from the lack of exercise he had been giving them over the last few hours, before letting out a hum to signal the person behind the door to come in. The bedroom door swung open, revealing a flustered looking Stuart Sutcliffe, who started talking before John had had the chance to say anything about his unexpected appearance, or even to say he could come in.

“How do I look? Fine? Handsome? You cannot see the wine stain, can you? Dot said she had managed to get it out, but I am not so sure yet,”  Stuart asked as he stepped inside John’s bedroom, chewing his bottom lip as he studied his clothes and started tugging at the cuffs of his jacket, straightening it out to make it look neater. Not that it was necessary. He looked very handsome in his dark suit.

“You look gorgeous, Stu. Miss Kirchherr will be most impressed, I am sure.”

“Oh, I do not doubt it, but it is not her I am worried about. My mother on the other hand… You know how she gets. Now, as for the stain, I am certain you can still see some light splashes of pink on the cuff, don’t you?” he asked, grabbing his left arm to inspect said cuff with intense scrutiny, pinching and pulling at the material as he scrunched up his nose in irritation, a deep frown decorating his forehead.

“Stu, dear, you look great! You are worrying about nothing as usual. I can’t see anything and even if there was a stain, it would not matter, for your mother would find some other fault to nag about, as she always does,” John said as he ran his fingers through his sleeping cat’s fur, offering his friend a calming smile in the hope he would stop worrying so much about his parents’ opinion of him. He was lovely the way he was, if only Stuart would see it himself.

“Oh! You’re right. I am sorry, John. You know how I get when I need to visit them. It is not good for my health, I swear,” Stuart exclaimed with an aspirated sigh as he dropped himself onto the bed beside his friend, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand for dramatic effect, causing his friend to laugh at him.

“Nothing is ever good for your health, or is there?”

“It is true. I am weak, frail… it is a miracle I can still walk if you think about it.”

“When are you leaving?” John asked with a chuckle, reaching over to move a lock of hair out his friend’s face.

“Soon, if I wish to pick Astrid up on time. She does not deserve this, you know? Such a lovely creature like her should never have to put up with my horrible excuse for a father. Poor child.”

“No one should,” John said and Stuart glanced up at him and smiled as he rolled over onto his side to pet the still snoring cat, muttering another “you’re right” in reply. They sat together for a short while longer, before John rose to his feet and offered Stuart his hand to help him do the same, telling him he should not postpone things any longer and got to Astrid’s, to which his friend acquiesced with a whispered curse.

“It will be over before you know, dear. I promise,” John said as he pulled him up onto his feet and helped him straighten out his clothes and look presentable again. Stuart huffed in disbelief, but stood still anyway to let John do as he pleased, before both men went downstairs to make certain Stuart would leave on time and not be late. John helped him put on his coat and scarf, urged him to bring an umbrella in case the weather changed for the worse, and even plucked a lovely pink flower from the back garden, which he tucked into the breast pocket of Stuart’s jacket for decoration, before he guided him to the door where he said goodbye and wished him good luck. The man started laughing as John started to practically push him out of door, urging him to walk by pressing a firm hand against the small of his back.

“Say, whose portrait is it exactly that you will be working on this evening, because I am getting the strong idea that you might actually _want_ me to leave? Please, don’t tell me it is that gruesome Miss Hailey? You know, the one with the annoying giggle that you can hear from miles away on a stormy night in the middle of the December?”

“Stu, dear, first of all, I don’t even like women, and second of all, even if I did she would be one of the last girls on my list, as you well know,” John calmly remarked.

“Which is exactly why you are trying so hard to hide it,” Stuart replied with a wink. When John only continued to give him foul looks in return, he rolled his eyes, “I am only messing with you, John. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear,” John said, playing along with his friend’s little game, and with that he managed to get Stuart to leave. He waited until Stuart had stepped into the coach he had ordered and had driven out of sight, before he shut the door behind him and hurried back upstairs to get ready for his own appointment, not wanting to be late again like last time, or look as unkempt.

By the time the doorbell rang, announcing Paul McCartney’s arrival, John had been pacing up and down the hallway for over twenty minutes, his hands clasped behind his back, wondering why he was feeling as nervous as he was. It was ridiculous, ludicrous that he cared so much about making a good impression on the younger man, especially considering he represented everything he despised in another person, being arrogant, spoilt, vain and dandy-like, with too much money to care for and an ego that would make Napoleon himself blush in his grave. He was too flirtatious for John’s liking too, batting those long eyelashes of his and pouting his luscious lips and using that tone of voice whenever he spoke with Dot… the poor girl. He should not care about what Paul’s opinion of him was. He should do what Mr. Edwards had told him to do and remain professional and do his job; he should keep his distance from him until the portrait would be finished and then Paul would vanish from his life once again. And yet, here he was with his hair neatly combed, his hands and fingernails scrubbed clean, wearing his best suit that only Mimi had seen once before, rehearsing what to say, in order to appeal to the pompous, yet handsome, young man.

He was being absurd.

Still, he straightened out his clothes one last time, waited a few seconds so it would not look like he had been waiting by the door for him, cleared his throat and took a deep breath, before opening the door, where he was greeted by the man in question. In the distance, he could still hear the coach that had brought him drive off over the cobblestone street, letting him know they were once again alone.

“Mr. Lennon, right on time, I see,” Paul said and John knew he was taunting him, but he refused to let it get to him, instead smiling in response as he wished him good evening and stepped aside to let him in, allowing his eyes to sweep over the younger man’s form as he moved past him. As soon as John closed the door behind him, Paul started taking off his coat, which he then handed to John without question. John tore his eyes away from him and hung the man’s coat away on the coat rack like he had done last time without commenting on it, ignoring the way his fingers were already twitching with the urge to capture the man before him on a white canvas for the rest of the world to admire. Turning back around, he raised his head to lock eyes with him and assert his dominance, but to his disappointment, Paul did not concede and only stared back at him, his gaze unwavering.

“Would you like anything to drink, sir? Tea? Something stronger perhaps?” John asked, refusing to avert his gaze. Paul nodded in reply.

“Something stronger would be nice. It’s er… been a long day, let’s say.”

“Wine?”                          

“Please.”

John nodded in return and motioned Paul to follow him as he guided him towards the door that led through to the art studio. Pushing it open, he motioned the man inside.  

“If you would take a seat at our usual spot, I shall get us something to drink so we can get started right away. I have put the sketch down on the easel if you would like to have a look; I have made a couple of adjustments I think you might appreciate,” John said and Paul nodded as he did what had been asked of him, disappearing through the door and leaving John once again behind. He let out a deep sigh as he closed the door behind the man, before heading to the kitchen to get them both a glass of wine – he could use one himself.

John took his time as he poured them both a generous glass of rather cheap wine, and put down some of that evening’s leftovers for the eats to enjoy if they got hungry, happy that Dot hadn’t thrown them out yet as she was in the habit of doing. John did not blame her, though, for she had never had cats herself and neither did she like them as much. To her, they were an inconvenience more than anything, as they would often make her job more difficult by rolling around in the freshly-washed laundry, or jump up onto the bed whenever she tried to change the sheets, and above all they left hairs behind everywhere. But they did not know any better, did they? They were only cats after all, but still Dot had little patience with them, taking to coolly tolerating them as long as they stayed out of her way. It wasn’t long before the first of the cats came rushing down the stairs and into the kitchen, smelling the food, which she began to devour the moment she spotted it with a thankful meow. John scratched the cat behind her ear and told her to behave, before he picked up the two glasses of wine he had poured and opened the door to the studio with his elbow. He had intended to kick the door shut right away to make sure none of the other cats would scurry in behind him, but he had been too late, and he cursed as he saw a flash of white hurry between his legs and into the studio.

“Shit. Oh shit,” he cursed, kicking the door shut behind him to make sure none of the others would follow the white cat’s example, remembering Mr. Edwards rules on cats in the studio and the consequences for breaking them. He followed the cat with his eyes and gasped in shock as he saw her jump onto his client’s lap and sit down onto what John could only imagine was a very expensive black suit. Much to his surprise, however, Paul did not react as badly as he had expected him to do, reacting, in fact, not badly at all.

“Hello there. Aren’t you a beautiful creature? Your master does not seem very pleased with you being here, you know,” the man said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice as he allowed the cat to sniff at his hand, before petting her and scratching her behind her ear, to which the cat responded by purring and rubbing her head against the palm of his hand, demanding him to continue what he was doing, and looking very content with the situation.

“I apologise, sir. She just slipped past me,” John explained, unsure if what was transpiring before his eyes was a good thing or not, but figuring that offering an apology was the least he could do. Paul, however, waved his apology away as he smiled down at the cat that had started to curl up in his lap.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Lennon. I have always had a soft spot for animals, especially such beautiful ones as this one here. Is she yours?” he asked.

“Yes. I er… I have the unfortunate habit of taking in strays. Mr. Edwards in particular is not happy about it, though. He does not mind the cats as much, but he does not want them in the studio. The hairs, you see… they get everywhere. And some clients aren’t fond of them, so…”

“Barbaric, is it not? How could anyone not like such gorgeous and dignified animals? Does she have a name?”

“Pepper, sir,” John said as he walked over to where the man was sitting still petting his cat, and placed their glasses of wine on a nearby side table, “I could take her back to the kitchen if you would prefer?”

“Absolutely not!” Paul objected before John had even finished his sentence, curling a protective arm around the cat in his lap, as if to shield her from her owner, which made John chuckle as he nodded and sat down on his own stool, deciding it would not hurt if Pepper would stay a little while longer. And if Mr. Edwards would notice she had been here, he could always say Mr. McCartney had insisted, leaving him with no real choice. He must understand that.  “Pepper is a curious name, though.”

“I have another named Salt. She’s all black,” John explained with a careful smile, and this time Paul laughed, actually laughed, sounding like a giggling angel that could make roses blossom in January and make it snow in the middle of June – magical was the only adjective that came into his head in that moment to describe that unusual sound.

“Well, at least you have a good sense of humour, Mr. Lennon,” Paul said, glancing up at him and surprising John once more with a twinkle that lay in his eyes, a twinkle he had not seen there before, and John could not help but feel flattered, somehow the fact that the compliment came from Paul, a McCartney, making it mean so much more to him. Still, he tried to suppress it, not wanting the other man to know how his words affected him, and so instead he looked down at Pepper, who was dozing comfortably in Paul’s warm lap, making a continuous purring sound as she enjoyed the attention she was receiving.

“She likes you,” he told Paul, who hummed at that, hugging the cat a little closer to him as he massaged her scalp.

“Animals tend to like me. Unlike most people.”

“So it seems,” John mused, flushing as he realised he had in fact said that aloud, not having meant to. Paul looked up at him in surprise, not having expected him to be quite so frank with him, but he did not say anything in return, which puzzled John, having heard stories of the family, and Paul in particular, having taken offence about lesser things.

“Anyway, shall we get started, Mr. Lennon? We might as well get some work done, wouldn’t you agree?” Paul asked instead, and John blinked at him a few times before nodding.

“Yes, that might be a good idea. Did you get a chance to look at the adjustments I made to the sketch?”

“I did, and I must say I am impressed with your work so far, Mr. Lennon. There are some things I would like to see changed myself, but it is a good start, certainly,” Paul said and John nodded as he glanced back at his sketch, feeling rather disappointed the younger man did not like it as much as he had hoped after all the time he had put into it. His disappointment must have been evident, as Paul leaned forward a little to catch John’s attention.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Lennon.  I can assure you, I do not often say that to people. I am genuinely pleased with your work,” he added and John nodded as he gave him a small thankful smile in return. “Now, what do we do next?”

“I would like to do another sketch, if you do not mind. I’d like to focus more on the details and such things, make it more definite, and it would allow me to become more familiar with your features before we start on the actual portrait,” John said and Paul nodded as he sat up in his seat a bit more and looked at him with a daring glint in his eyes.

“Of course. How and where do you want me?” he asked and John forced himself to remain professional and not push boundaries again; of course Paul did not mean anything with that particular phrasing, it was only his own twisted mind that made it look as if everything was more suggestive than it was meant to be.

“The same pose would be fine, Paul. Pepper can stay in your lap if you wish, as I’ll be focusing on your facial features the most this evening, so that should not cause any trouble. It is up to you, of course,” he said and Paul nodded, but did not move into position as John had expected him to, and instead only looked straight at John, his gaze unwavering as if he were waiting for something. When John finally realised what he was attempting to do, or rather make him do, he felt his cheeks heat up, but before he had thought it through, he had already gotten up and was kneeling by Paul’s side. He reached out for him with a tentative hand, but refrained from touching him, waiting for Paul to nod and give him his consent, before took the man’s chin between his thumb and pointer finger and started to guide him into position like he had done last time, using gentle touches with his fingertips to manipulate Paul’s body in the position he wanted with surprising ease, as he ignored the way his heart was racing in his chest and tried to breathe normally. Once he was done, he stepped away and refused to look at the other man as he shuffled back to his easel, sat down on his stool and picked up a piece of charcoal with trembling fingers, before opening his sketchbook onto a new page to start afresh.

They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds in the studio being Pepper’s content purring and the scratching of charcoal on paper. John focussed mostly on Paul’s features as he sketched the younger man with more care than last time, wanting it to be as close to perfection as he could manage, and trying not to get distracted by the man’s beauty or the fact that his body was still feeling strange from helping Paul to sit in the correct position. He did notice how Paul was struggling to sit still again, but unlike last time, it now only took John the occasional polite correction to make sure Paul retained his pose. It struck John as remarkable with how much ease the man before him followed his directions and orders, allowing him not only to tell him what to do, but also how to sit, how to look, when to breathe, to speak, or drink, and how easy it seemed to be for him to obey, falling almost naturally into the submissive role he was portraying. It surprised him, as he had expected a man of his class and position to be more dominant and to struggle with a role reversal such as this one, but instead it seemed to hardly take him any effort at all.

It was strange and it made John wonder, wonder about things he should not be wondering about when it concerned people like James Paul McCartney if he did not want to risk his or his master’s position and name. People like the McCartney’s lived a largely public life, especially in a growing city such as Liverpool, where both men and women enjoyed the gossip about such persons, especially when it came to the romantic aspect of their grandiose life. About Paul’s brother, Michael McCartney, there was hardly anything the inhabitants of Liverpool did not know, being well aware of all the women who had at one point been a candidate to marry the youngest McCartney son, and it was well known at the moment that there was a certain young lady in London who had caught the gentleman’s eye. But about his brother, there was less known information, most especially about his romantic preferences. He was a private man, was well known to be, but to not know of his romantic interests was strange, considering how important the prospect of marrying the man was to some women. John could not remember ever having heard one name being whispered as a potential wife, and although Paul McCartney had a terrible personality, seeing him here now being sweet with a cat, made John doubt not one woman had fallen for him despite his many faults. It was strange to say the least, so strange that it would almost make sense if…

“I am sorry, Mr. Lennon, but would you mind terribly if we took a short break? My body is aching for a smoke,” Paul said, interrupting John’s train of thought. It took him a while to process what the man had requested, but as soon as he did, he forced himself to look away from him as he nodded, only then realising he must have been staring at him for what had probably been many minutes.

“Yes… yes, of course,” he muttered as he put his things aside and reached for his glass to take his first sip of wine, having forgotten about it as he had gotten lost in his work. Paul nodded thankfully at him and stretched himself out, before slumping in his chair, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket to retrieve a small pipe. Pepper, who was clearly unhappy about the lack of petting she was now receiving, jumped off Paul’s lap with an angry meow, and hurried to the kitchen door, where she started scratching at the wood, demanding John to open the door for her. John got up with a sigh, but did as the cat wanted, hoping to leave behind as little evidence as possible of one of the cats having been into the studio, and knowing claw marks would be very telling indeed if Mr. Edward were to notice them.

“You do not mind me smoking in here, do you?” Paul asked from behind him and John turned to look over his shoulder as he shook his head, trying his hardest not to look at the way his plump lips closed around the pipe.

“Not at all, Paul,” he said, “Would you like something else to drink? Another glass of wine perhaps?”

“Oh, please,” Paul said and reached for his glass to offer it to John, who took it with trembling hands, before hurrying out of the studio and into the kitchen before Paul could comment on it, glad to escape him for a moment, needing to gather his thoughts.

Naturally, he was being ridiculous. James Paul McCartney did not like men. He was just overthinking things again, imagining things that were not there and using that as evidence for his absurd and unfounded ideas. Paul McCartney did not fancy men, and he most certainly did not fancy him, and that was the end of it.

The second half of the evening went better: the cats stayed away from the studio, and the two of them worked in silence as they drank their wine and Paul finished smoking his pipe. The whole room now smelled of tobacco, but John did not mind, enjoying the smell even if it gave him the urge to have a smoke himself. A little less than two hours passed, before Paul spoke up again and decided it was time for them to call it a day, feeling rather exhausted after posing for that long, and John had to agree, realising only then what time it was and how long they had been working, his right arm suddenly feeling heavy. Looking back at his work, he was surprised at how little he had managed to get done, having only just finished the rough lines of Paul’s face and neck, and most of the detailed features, all of which still needed some refining before he could work with it. Still, when he showed it to Paul, the younger man was once again very pleased with the progress they had made, making no comment about the speed with which he had been working.

“Shall we meet next Wednesday again? Twice a week ought to be sufficient, don’t you think?” Paul asked as he started wiping the white cat hairs from his clothes and straightening them out. John nodded in agreement. From the hallway, he could hear some stumbling, but he gave it little thought, thinking it would either be a cat or two or Dot who was still working, forgetting for a moment she usually left around nine in the evening, meaning she would have already gone home. Paul raised an eyebrow at the noise, thinking it was strange, but made no comment. Once he was ready to leave, John offered him to walk with him to the door and get him his coat, which Paul appreciated, motioning him to lead the way, which John did, opening the door that lead to the hallway, only to freeze as he saw who, in fact, had been making those odd noises. The moment his eyes met Stuart’s, his throat constricted, feeling as if he had been caught.

“Stuart! Wh-what are you doing here?” he asked, feeling his cheeks heat up as he glanced at the man behind him, unsure how he would react to their unexpected company, remembering the way he had reacted last time when he had thought someone was coming into the studio.

“John, I-I had forgotten my keys,’ Stuart stammered, his eyes snapping from John to Paul and back to John again, clearly shocked.

“Oh, I see… Stuart, this is Mr. McCartney. I’m er… painting his portrait. Mr. McCartney, this is Stuart Sutcliffe, a colleague of mine.”

“Good evening, Mr. Sutcliffe,” Paul said and Stuart stared at him for a moment, before replying in a likewise fashion.

“I’ll er… I’ll get out of your way. Excuse me. It was nice to see you again, Mr. McCartney,” Stuart said, before rushing up the stairs without another word, leaving a baffled John behind. Once he heard one of the doors upstairs fall shut, he turned back to Paul, smiling apologetically.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did not think he would be here,” he said.

“That is quite alright, Mr. Lennon. I actually know him. Or at least, his name is familiar to me. I believe his father had once been a tenant on my father’s land.”

“Was he? He never told me that.”

“We all have things we rather do not talk about. Anyway, it is fine. I just had not expected him. I’ll er… see you next Wednesday then, Mr. Lennon.”

“Yes, of course. Here, let me get you your coat,” John said as he passed the younger man and got him his coat. He helped him into it and wished him a pleasant goodnight as he let him out, watching as he drove off in his private carriage, a strange feeling in his chest. As soon as he stepped back inside the closed the door behind him, he was greeted by a rather upset-looking Stuart.

“What was _he_ doing here, John? Why did you not tell me he, _he_ of all people, was your new client?” he demanded, not allowing John any time to try to get himself out of this conversation, making John frown in confusion.

“Come on, Stuart. I know how much you dislike the man. I thought it would only upset you if you knew, and it seems I was right.”

“Yes, of course I am upset! What do you think, John? What does he want from you, anyway?”

“Want from me? Stuart, he does not want anything from me. He is only here for his portrait, which was arranged by his father. Besides, I don’t even know why you are so upset. He does not seem at all that bad to me.”

“Not that bad?!”

“Yes! I mean, he’s not pleasant, per se, but I would not say he is the worst person I have ever spoken to. He seems rather alright to me, though perhaps a little arrogant,” John said with a shrug, but Stuart did not agree with that, and waved his arms about rather dramatically at his words.

“ _A little arrogant_?! John, no. You have heard the stories, have you not? You know what this man is capable of.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, Stu? I can hardly refuse him my services, can I? Mr. Edwards is counting on me for this. It is not like I volunteered to do this. I am only saying that the stories we have been hearing might have been exaggerated, if not made up.”

“John, of course I do not want you to refuse him as a client, but it is ridiculous to assume the stories are not true. He is a manipulative, arrogant brat, John. You cannot trust him.  I only want you to keep your distance and be careful around him. This man… you must not underestimate him. You do not know what he is capable of.”

“Oh, but you do?!”

“John… please. I am asking you as a friend, please be careful around him. Keep your distance, do your job, but nothing more. You cannot trust him, however  ‘pleasant’ he may seem to you,” Stuart all but begged and John considered him for a moment, before nodding, giving in with reluctance, unsure if his friend was right about this, but not feeling much for making this discussion longer than necessary, knowing it was futile to try to change his mind about this.

“Alright. I promise, I will keep my distance,” he said and Stuart visibly relaxed at those words, sighing in relief.

“Thank you, John,” he said and John nodded as he offered him a small smile, and he watched as Stuart grabbed his things, before leaving without another word, clearly still upset about the whole ordeal with Paul for reasons unbeknownst to John.

That evening, as he lay in bed thinking about what Stuart had said to him about Paul, he could not stop thinking about the way Paul had looked as he had sat in that chair with Pepper in his lap, cuddling her and talking to her in that gentle, high-pitched voice, looking so very different from what John had expected from the stories he had heard over the years. Surely, Paul could not be as bad as people made him out to be? Perhaps Stuart was wrong about him? Sighing, he rolled over and grabbed his little notebook and something to draw with. Opening it on a blank page, he put the coal onto the page and started sketching some rough lines, until he could see Paul looking back at him as he lay in bed, a cat curled up by his side, his large hazel doe eyes looking directly into his. Surely, a man as beautiful as him was not as people made him out to be. People often created demons for their own benefit, after all. Surely, there had to be more to him than what the stories said. There had to be. 


	5. Chapter 5

The autumn wind blew softly as Paul rode beneath the red, brown and orange coloured trees, the fallen leaves twirling upwards beneath the horse’s hooves as she stepped on at a leisurely pace over the golden grass field. The sun hung low in the sky, the evening approaching sooner than Paul had expected, but it kept the earth warm at a comfortable temperature, allowing Paul to wear his coat unbuttoned for a change as he rode over this father’s land and listened to the birds chirping and singing their songs to which he replied with a whistled tune of his own. It were afternoons like these that he treasured the most, to be able to ride through the beautiful landscape without worries or responsibilities and to feel free, even just for a moment or two, with no one requiring anything from him and no one there to disturb him.

It were moments such as these that he could at last be alone for a while, the estate being too vast to accidentally run into someone. Neither his father nor his brother took pleasure in riding, and the servants had no business in these parts of the estate, except for the occasional gardener, who Paul could avoid without much effort. In the distance he could hear the vivacity of the city below, as well as the tenants working their land; he could hear children laughing and shouting as they played their games before they were called back inside for their lessons, and women whistling a song of their own as they hung out the fresh laundry in the sun to dry. Paul had always enjoyed hearing these sounds, even if they were barely audible, the people living too far away from the manor house or the gardens where he could enjoy mother nature’s beauty the most.

He rode on a while longer, riding all the way to the edge of the estate where he could catch a glimpse of the working men, women, and children, to then follow the path towards the woods, making a wide circle around the lake that lay before it, before he decided to head back towards the stables, knowing it was going to take him a while, having wandered off further than he had intended to. It was approaching dinner time and he hoped the cooks had already started on it, feeling how his stomach growled in the need for something to fill his stomach, and knowing Helen, the main cook, she would be more than happy to allow him a little taste. She always let him when he would ask, having taken a liking to him when he had only been a toddler running around the kitchen and making her life a tiny bit harder that way. Helen was a great girl and Paul adored her cooking. Closing his eyes, he could already smell the delicious foods that would be presented to him that evening, causing his stomach to growl once more. He had not eaten anything since lunch time as he had deliberately missed afternoon tea with his father in order to avoid him, but now he started to regret his decision. Taking a firmer hold of the reigns, he sat back in the saddle and spurred on his horse, promising her a treat too if she hurried, to which she happily complied.

As the stables came into view, Paul slowed his pace and leaned forward to stroke his horse’s neck as he praised her, allowing her to walk it off so she would not hurt her legs. At least it was not yet dinner time, the servants being still hard at work as per usual, meaning he had not missed it. The stable boys were cleaning out the stables, carrying hay on pitchforks and sweeping the floors with old brooms that desperately needed replacement, while another was taking some of the horses out to graze in the meadow two at the time. He had the top part of his overalls undone, allowing it to hung low on his hips as his shirt, which was covered in sweat and dirt, strained under his muscled arms and chest as he moved. A light flush coloured his cheekbones from the exercise. He smiled at Paul as he caught him looking, before turning his attention back to the two horses he was escorting and going back to work. A handyman was repairing one of the windows looking into the stables and stood balanced on a three-legged stool to reach it, while another man was cleaning the many windows of the orangery, humming a cheery tune as he did so. Closer to him, he could see one of the gardeners knelt by one of the flower beds, sitting bent over them as he took care of the flowers in that gentle and loving way Paul had never seen in another person and which was so particular of him. Smiling at the sight, he rode over to him and called out his name. The man in questioned looked up at him and waved as he saw who he was, sitting up a bit more, as he remained knelt in the dirt.

“Good morning, Mr. McCartney! Your father had been wondering where you were. Out riding again, I see,” he greeted him, tipping his head at him once Paul halted his horse in front of him and jumped off with impressive ease.

“Please do not call me that, George. You know I despise it.”

“You have no sense of humour, Paul.”

“It is hardly my fault that you are so incapable of making me laugh, is it? But never mind that, how have you been? It has been a while since we have last seen each other after all, never mind since we had any kind of proper conversation,” Paul said, thus waving away their small argument in the knowledge that he could not win, having laughed at George’s jokes and jests too often to be able to maintain the idea that his friend was not funny, hilarious even at times.

“Oh, Paul, so many things have transpired over the last few weeks – all good, I assure you - and I actually wanted to talk to you about something, but first, I need to know how you have been doing. I must admit, I have been kind of worried.”

“Please, don’t be. I have been well,” Paul said and he could not help but chuckle at his friend’s concern of his well-being, although at the same time, he felt rather flattered that he cared so much for him. George, however, did not laugh along.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I mean, relatively, I have been. I am glad I finally managed to get some free time on my hands, though, and go for a ride, which I hadn’t done for quite some time. I have missed it, you know. Especially in such beautiful weather as this. And I have been getting my portrait done, which serves as a great distraction from it all,” he replied with a smile, looking down shyly at his feet as he remembered the sessions he had had with the portraitist so far – or apprentice, he should say.

“So I have heard. At Mr. Edward’s establishment, isn’t it? That must be faring well, considering his expertise.”

“I am certain it would have, but sadly he was already preoccupied with another assignment which required him to be away from the city for a couple of weeks, so the job was giving to his apprentice, and I have to admit, he is delivering wonderful work so far,” Paul said, his smile only growing.

“Oh, is he? And who might this miracle apprentice be, if I may ask.”

“No one in particular, George. He is a mere worker – no one important. Not even as a person he is interesting if I am honest.”

“I highly doubt that. ‘Delivering wonderful work?’ You never speak with so much praise of any artist, not even those who you call friends in Paris, who have their works shown in some of the most prestigious art galleries is Europe. I refuse to believe that someone receiving such high praise from a person like you is “a mere worker’ – that is your father speaking,” George said with a telling grin, at last rising to his feet as he was eager to hear more of this man who had caught his friend’s eye, even if he would not yet admit to it himself.

“If you must know, his name is John Lennon and he is Mr. Edwards’ best student. I must admit he possesses some great artistic talent, and I believe he is an aspiring artist, but I have not seen any of his other work, except for the portraits that hang in the studio itself, so naturally, I cannot make any real judgements based on those. He er… also has a great fondness for cats.”

“How old is he?”

“I would say about two or three years my senior. He is rather audacious at times, though, I would say, which in the end is his greatest fault. He has hardly any regard for neither authority, nor the decorum of today’s society, and is in the unhealthy habit of pushing boundaries, which, of course, I do not tolerate.”

“So what do you do?”

“I retaliate,” Paul said, sounding somewhat uncertain, which made his friend snicker. Paul decided not to say anything of it.

“You enjoy it, don’t you?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?!” Paul objected.

“Is he handsome?”

“You could say so, perhaps. Auburn hair, brown almond-shaped eyes, aquiline nose, beautiful and clever hands – handsome is certainly a word I  would use to describe him, but do not dare make any suggestions based on that, George. Even if I had taken an interest – which I haven’t, if you so desperately wish to know – it would not be possible.”

“He is an artist. It is not unheard of.”

“George, please, you are being delusional. He is hardly my type, and I would not call him an artist. He is a _portraitist_. And his bad manners are very unbecoming indeed,” Paul said, turning back to his horse to focus his attention on her, hoping George would take the hint and drop the subject, wishing to no longer discus such a ridiculous idea. “Now, let us please discus something else before I decide to not spend any more of my time listening to your ridiculous ideas and acquisitions.”

“Of course, sir. After all, I am a mere worker, so I would never think of overstepping my boundaries.”

“That is not how I meant it, and you know I didn’t. Now, come on. What did you want to tell me?” Paul asked with a sigh, glancing over his shoulder to give George an apologetic smile. Thankfully, George nodded and came to stand with him, reaching out to pet the horse’s nose as he began to speak once again, their little disagreement seemingly put aside for the moment. Besides, Paul was certain he knew he knew he meant much more to him than that, more even than just as a close friend.

“You should consider yourself lucky I care so much about you, Paul,” George muttered, giving his friend a firm look, before he continued on a happier note. “I have been meaning to tell you this for a while, if I am honest, but seeing as it had gone wrong before, Pattie and I decided to wait until we were certain, which we now are. Pattie, she is expecting.”

“Expecting? You don’t mean-“

“She is with child,” George said, a wide grin spreading over his face as his eyes started twinkling with excitement and happiness, the sentence alone filling him with joy at the prospect of having one of those little persons for himself. His smile was so genuine, so honest and heart-warming, that even Paul felt a sudden warmth spread from the inside of his chest to his fingertips.

“Oh, George! That is such wonderful news! Congratulations! And how lovely for Pattie as well.”

“She is over the moon of course, but she is still slightly worried, you know, seeing as it went wrong last time. But that is not all I wanted to say. Or rather, I wanted to ask you something as well. You see, with a child on the way, Pattie cannot teach the children at the school as much as she used to, which means we have had less money to spend, with her earning less, so I was wondering – or hoping – that, if it was not too much trouble, you could perhaps ask your father if he could erm… raise my pay?”

“George, it is not that easy. My father-“

“I know, Paul. I understand I am asking a lot, and I am already earning relatively well, but it would mean a lot to me if you could perhaps ask? I am not expecting anything to come out of it, but it would really help us, and children are so expensive… though, I understand if you would rather not.” Paul bit his lip as he thought it over for a moment, considering the consequences in his head and imagining how his father would react to such a request, not looking forward to such a conversation. But in the end, George was his friend.

“I cannot promise anything to come out of it, but I could try, if it would help you and Pattie along.”

“You would?!”

“Yes, I shall talk to my father about it, but as I’ve said, I cannot promise anything.”

“Oh, thank you, Paul! It would mean a lot to us. And you must come to visit us some time. I am certain Pattie would appreciate it,” George said, and Paul smiled back at him as he nodded. He had just been about to say something else, as he was interrupted by the sound of someone else shouting his name across the field, the voice that sounded strangely familiar. Turning his head, he scanned his surroundings to see who had called him, when he caught sight of someone waving at him by the stables. He recognised the young man right away, with his dark brown hair, pale complexion, fancy suit and his top hat in his hand, an umbrella hanging from his arm, unused.

“Michael!” Paul exclaimed in his surprise, not having expected his brother to be home, as he was supposed to be in London still with a couple of his friends. Right away, he grabbed the reigns the jumped back onto his horse, planting himself firmly in the saddle, as he muttered excuses to his friend, telling him they would continue this conversation another time.

“Don’t worry about it, Paul. I ought to get back to work anyway. We’ll see each other again soon.”

“I promise we will. I will ask my father this evening if I can,” Paul replied and with one last wink, he turned his horse and rode over to his brother at the other end of the field. From the corner of his eyes, he could see George waving back at him for a moment, before turning back to his own work with a grin, kneeling back down onto the ground. Once Paul was near enough, he stopped his horse and he had only just jumped off his horse, when he felt a pair of arms wrapping themselves around him for a friendly hug.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be back for another two weeks at least! What are you doing here?” Paul asked with a laugh, as he returned the hug, having missed his brother over the last month that he had been away. As Michael pulled away from his brother, he smirked at him, before answering rather cryptically.

“I have some wonderful news to share with father and you, so I simply felt obliged to come home and do so in person. Letters are so impersonal. I have never liked them, especially not for something as this.”

“Oh, what is the news?” Paul asked, but his brother shook his head.

“Be patient, Paul. I want to tell you and dad at the same time. Where is he, anyhow?”

“In his study, but we cannot go there now. I believe he is in a meeting with some important people - about what I do not know, he wouldn’t tell me, but he made it absolutely clear not want to be disturbed.”

“Oh, but I am sure he will let us interrupt him for this,” Mike said, but Paul was not so certain. “It will be fine, Paul. Now, let’s get your horse taken care of, so we can go find him. I cannot wait to share this with you.”

“Can you not tell me now and we can tell father during dinner. He does not appreciate being disturbed during meeting, you know,” Paul said, but Mike shook his head and beckoned one of the stable boys to come over to them.

“If he does get upset, I will take all the blame. Don’t worry too much, it is not good for you,” he said and Paul acquiesced with a sigh, knowing his brother would not let him change his mind on this. Obviously, whatever this wonderful news was, he thought it was very important, too important to wait for even just an hour or two. His brother wasn’t stupid, after all, he knew his their father could get, even if he was mostly let off easy, being the youngest.

One of the stable boys came over and Paul felt his breath stock as he saw it was the same man who had been taking the horses out earlier, but he remained in control and only nodded at him as he allowed him to take his horse off him. The boy, who was a few years younger than Paul, nodded and smiled once more at him, before turning around and guiding the horse inside the stables, probably to take off her halter and saddle and brush her, before she would either be taken to the meadow to graze or put into her freshly cleaned stable. Paul followed the boy with his eyes, until he was out of sight, before he allowed his brother to pull him into the direction of the manor, feeling how his palms started to sweat at the prospect of seeing his father.

“How are you doing, anyway?” Michael asked as they walked into the manor house, where they were greeted by one of the maids, who took their coats and Paul’s riding gear from them. Rather than answering his brother’s question, he shot the young girl a wink and let his fingertips brush her skin as he handed her his things, which made her flush bright pink. She pretended nothing was the matter, however, and gave the two men a brief, but polite, nod, before hurrying off to put everything away. When Paul turned back to his brother, the latter was shaking his head at him with disapproval.

“You have not changed at all, have you?”

“In case you have forgotten, you were gone for only a month, not a year, dear brother. So no, I have not changed at all.”

“I take it then, you still have not found the right person to settle down with,” Michael asked as they began to walk through the impressive hallway with white marble flooring, double height ceilings and a large double staircase of rich mahogany wood, leading up to the first floor. In the middle hung a gorgeous chandelier that twinkled as the sunlight that shone through the many windows, landed on it. The sounds of their heels clacking on the marble stones echoed through the room as they walked through it to one of the many dark timber doors that would lead to the corridor at which their father’s personal library and study were situated.

“I have told you before that I do not think I am meant for love,” Paul answered his brother as he pushed the heavy door open and let his brother in first.

“Don’t be so pessimistic.”

“I am not. Some people are meant for other things.”

“You are bitter for such a privileged man, you know that?”

“Why do you think I am bitter? Because I have never been infatuated with love before like you, or became lost in it that I forgot everything else around me? I take pleasure in other aspects of life, Mike. Maddening love might be your pleasure in life, but it is not mine.”

“And what then, might I ask, if your pleasure in life? Your animals, your books, your music, your art?”

“And why should it not be?”

“It could be, but even that isn’t really it. You don’t live, Paul. It saddens me.”

“I live.”

“Then, when was the last time you enjoyed something simply because you could, not because you were obligated to, but because you could? When was the last time your name, your reputation, position, or any of those things, did not dictate what you did?” Mike asked, but Paul did not answer. “There is more to life than those things, Paul.”

Paul, again, did not reply, and only walked on to the door to his father’s study. He could hear men talking behind the door, laughing and making jokes as they drank and discussed whatever business was of import today. Paul had been present at a couple of these meeting in the past as part of his father preparing him for the day he would come to inherent the estate, but Paul preferred to avoid them as much as possible, the men more often than not being too obnoxious for his liking. He took a deep breath, glanced sideways as his brother, as if to ask if he was certain about this, before he knocked on the door a couple of times in quick succession. The voices in the room quietened down at the sound, and for a moment it was completely silent, before his father called, asking who it was.

“It is me, father. Michael came home early, and he has some news he wanted to share with us,” Paul answered politely.

“Can’t it wait? I am in a meeting.”

“I am sorry, father. He insisted on doing this now.” Some more murmurs came from behind the door and Paul had been about to turn around to walk away, when his father’s voice sounded once more.

“Alright. Come in, if it is this pressing,” he said and Paul turned to his brother in surprise, who offered him a smug grin in reply, to which he rolled his eyes. He turned the doorknob and opened the door to the study, revealing a group of about six men sitting around his father’s desk. The room was richly decorated, with rows of bookshelves covering the wall behind the large mahogany desk, paintings hanging from the other walls, and a dozen or so sculptures standing on pedestals or on shelves to be admired. A large Persian rug covered the dark wooden flooring, giving the room a warm and cosy feeling.

The men in the room turned their heads to the two young men as they entered the room, looking them up and down, considering them, before they all gave a small nod to greet them. Paul winced as he saw his father’s expression; he looked annoyed with the interruption, as he had guessed he would be, and Paul wished they had waited until dinner to hear his brother’s news. He certainly hoped the news would indeed be wonderful, or else he might regret this decision.

“Excuse me, gentleman. It seems that my sons have something urgent to share with me in private. I suggest we shall continue our conversation here in about thirty minutes. I am certain my servants will look after you until then,” Mr. McCartney said to his guests, who nodded in understanding as they got up from their seats, their drinks still in hand, and started to make their way to the door, where, Paul now noticed, one of the maids stood waiting to guide them to the drawing room. One of the men, a somewhat older man with a face as untrustworthy as his personality, smiled at her as he muttered something under his breath, which Paul could only guess was improper, judging by the look in his eyes. Disgusted, he took a step towards her and laid a protective hand on her shoulder as he stared the man straight in the eye, who narrowed his eyes at him, before walking past them and out of the room.

“Thank you, sir,” the maid said, her voice soft, and Paul felt bad for having forgotten her name in that moment. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting go of her and taking a seat in one the chairs at his father’s desk, which had now become empty. Michael took one of the seats beside him. Once the last person had left, the maid closed the door behind them and left the three men alone.

“So,” Mr. McCartney began, lighting up his pipe as he spoke, “and what might I ask was so important that you felt the need to disturb me, when I had specifically asked you not to.”

“It is entirely my fault, father,” Mike said, but Mr. McCartney shook his head.

“Nonsense. Paul could have refused if he had wanted to, so I hope for him you have a very good reason to be sitting here right now rather than in the drawing room, waiting for dinner.”

“I do, father. Actually, I have the feeling you will be most rejoiced. I er… well, to put it simply, I have decided to marry.” Sure enough, their father, looked up at Mike with wide eyes at his words, his objections to being interrupted apparently having vanished by the utterance of that simple word.

“Marry? To whom?”

“Miss Angela Fishwick, father.”

“The London girl?”

“Yes. In fact, I have already asked for her hand and both she and her father agreed to the match.”

“But that is fantastic news!” Jim McCartney said as he got up from his chair and walked over to his youngest son, clasping his hands into his own and bringing them up to his lips to kiss them, a bright smile on his lips. “Miss Fishwick… yes, I know her father. What a wonderful match. Of course, I will have to see her before the marriage, but I do not think there will be any reason why I should not give you two my blessing. A fantastic match indeed! Then again, I never thought you would make a horrendous choice, unlike _some_. Please tell me you brought her here with you?”

“I am sorry, father. She had to finish some business first. I only asked her hand two days ago, but I simply could not wait any longer to tell you. She is coming here by coach next week to meet you.”

“Fantastic, son. Oh, what happy news. You must write your aunt in Scotland. She has been feeling particularly ill over the last few weeks and she could use some happy news to cheer her up. Now, you two must excuse me, I shall make some arrangements with the cooks to have them prepare something special for supper this evening – dinner they probably will not manage any more, but that is no bother. We must celebrate this!”

Paul had not said anything yet during the course of the conversation, and felt like he might faint if he were to try. All blood seemed to have rushed out of his brain, making him feel light-headed as he tried to process the news. His brother was getting married. The words of his father hurt and kept repeating themselves in his head, knowing very well whom his father was referring to when he spoke about “some”. The whole ordeal felt like a horrible joke to him, and he felt himself shaking in his seat as he watched his father congratulate his brother, pulling him into a hug.

It wasn’t so much about the marriage that was so off putting for Paul, as he had always wished only the best for his younger brother, but his father’s happiness at the news, the proud look in his eyes, and the affection he expressed towards Michael, combined with the implicit disdain for him, made it difficult for Paul to breathe in that moment, let alone think. All he could do was feel – a mixture of happiness for his brother, as well as fear and pity for himself, or perhaps even hatred. He barely even noticed it as he got up from his seat and excused himself, saying he was going out to get some fresh air for a moment. It was only when his father called after him to not be late for supper that evening, when he came back to himself and noticed he was already standing by the door.

“Yes, father. I just… I will be back on time,” he said, but didn’t wait for an answer as he walked on and closed the door behind him, letting out a frustrated groan, before making his way upstairs, needing to leave for a moment to gather his thoughts and be alone for a while. He got his coat, scarf, and gloves, as well as some money which he put into the left pocket of his trousers, and put everything on, before going back downstairs, where, to his luck, he ran one of the servants whose name he knew.

“Carter!” he yelled at him as he hurried down the stairs. “Forget everything you were doing and get the coach ready for me. I am going into town.”

“At this hour, sir? But dinner is almost ready.”

“I am well aware, Carter. The coach, if you please,” Paul snapped in reply and the man nodded as he quickly hurried off to do as Paul had asked of him. The man had only just left, or Michael came back into the hall, looking rather annoyed. When he spotted Paul, he walked over to him, a deep frown on his brow.

“Paul, what are you doing?”

“I am going out.”

“Out?”

“I have an appointment,” Paul lied, turning around to face the front door as he waited for Carter to return to say the coach was ready for him. Mike, however, was not pleased with that as an explanation.

“You have no appointment. This is about me, about my marriage!”

Paul scoffed. “Listen, brother dear, I am happy for you that you have found a woman you love, but really, that is not what I am upset about.”

“Then what is it?” Mike demanded, but Paul refused to answer. “You are behaving like a child!”

“You know what this is about, Michael. It has nothing to do with you. I just need to go out for a while, okay?”

“If this is about father-“

“Of course it is about father! Listen, Mike. I love you, and I want to be happy for you, but I simply can’t right now. I’ll be back and happy again before supper,” Paul said and Mike stared at him for a moment in disbelieve, before he began to speak again, much to Paul’s disappointment.

“Father does love you, if that is what you are worrying about,” he said, but Paul only scoffed again as he glanced at his brother, but before he could say anything more, Carter returned, saying the coach was waiting for him outside. Paul nodded and thanked him, before walking over to the front door, only to be stopped by his brother, who grabbed his by his wrist.

“He _does_ love you, Paul. I know you don’t believe it, but he does.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, Mike. It is not healthy. Father was about ready to give you the entire estate for merely finding yourself a wife to decorate your bedroom with. I will be fine, I promise you. I just need some time to myself,” he said, tugging his wrist free, and with that, he stepped outside and hurried down the stairs and over the gravel pathway to where the coach was waiting for him in front of the large decorative fountain, and stepped inside. The moment he closed the coach door behind him, they drove off and a wave of relief washed over him as they drove away from the estate and into the city, leaving his problems behind him.

When they had driven into the city, he tapped on the coach to catch the driver’s attention, telling him to stop. Slowly, the coach came to a halt, just outside the centre of the city, and without a word Paul climbed out of the coach, not waiting until the driver would open the door for him.

“Thank you, Miles. I will go further alone.”

“Alone sir?” The driver asked, looking over his shoulder in surprise at the young master’s words, but Paul simply nodded. “But it is not save for you to go out alone, sir.”

“I am twenty-two years old, Miles. I think I can handle myself for a couple of hours. Please wait for me at The King’s Arms, and I will see you there in a few hours to drive back. I want to be back at the manor before supper, so I should not be gone for long. Have a drink while you wait.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the driver said, looking reluctant to leave his young master alone in the city, so Paul, not wanting to give him enough time to change his mind about leaving him alone, handed him some money for his drink, before walking off into the night, waving Miles goodbye as he took in the chilly city air and simply walked wherever his legs were taking him, not having a clear goal in mind. For now, he simply wanted to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting to learn a bit more about our dearest Paulie... Seems like his life isn't as easy as it might appear to be at first... 
> 
> Also, Chapter 1-11 are on both my Tumblr and Wattpad account (under the same user name, isn't that handy?) so you can read those chapters on there if you can't bear waiting any longer. I'll catch up on here eventually, though.
> 
> Don't be afraid to leave kudos and comment if you want to! I love reading them :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates lately. The next couple of chapters will come sooner!

John listened to the rhythmic tapping of the rain against the window panes as he lay stretched out on the sofa with a book in his hand, a cup of tea in the other, and a grey knitted blanket draped over his body, enjoying his free evening in comfortable solitude as he read and drifted off to another world for a while. His round glasses had slipped off to the end of his nose, but since it did little to complicate his reading, he left them as they were, and simply turned the next page instead. He took a careful sip of his freshly made tea, and let out a hum as the warm substance warmed up his throat and belly, making him feel drowsy. On occasion, he let out a yawn or forced his eyes to stay open, wanting to take this free moment he had to read, which he hadn’t had the opportunity to do since Mr. Edwards had left a little over a week ago. It seemed like so much had happened since then, that it felt as if it had been longer.

Much to his disappointment, however, his peaceful evening was soon interrupted by the sound of loud and incessant knocking on the front door, jerking him out of his dream-like reading state, and back into the art studio. Groaning in annoyance, he put his tea aside and laid his book upside down on his lap, so he would not lose the page he was on, as he sat up and called out for his maid.

“Dot! Dot, there is someone at the door, love!” John called up to her, knowing she would be upstairs finishing up some last things and getting his bed ready for the evening before she would go home, but she did not hear him. He tried again, but it was  futile - no response came. Cursing under his breath, John closed his book anyway - making a quick mental note on the page number - and laid it down on the salon table, before he pushed the warm blanket off himself and rose to stand, leaning with his hand on the armrest in order to steady himself, his sleepy state making him stand clumsy on his feet. Once he had found his balance, he ran a hand through his unruly hair in an attempt to tame it for his unexpected - and rather unwanted - guest, and shuffled over to the front door, hoping that the person behind it had a good reason for disturbing him at this hour, even if he had no idea what hour it actually was.

“Yes, yes, I am coming,” John muttered to himself as the knocking started once more. This time, the knocks were short, hesitant perhaps, which sounded strange in comparison to the urgent knocking from before. For a moment, he halted in surprise as he noticed his cat, Pepper, standing by the front door, her front paws placed high up against the wooden door as she scratched at it with her claws, meowing almost constantly at the person behind it.  Frowning at her odd behaviour, he walked over to her and picked her up with both hands, gently holding her against his chest as he started to pet her, trying to get her to calm down.

“It’s alright, girl. Who are you so eager to see, eh?” he asked her, and with one last little kiss on her head, he laid his free hand on the doorknob and turned it, opening the door to reveal a young man standing in the rain, wearing almost all black and looking soaked through to the skin. The image was too blurry for him to see who he was at first, but as he slipped his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, he let out a tiny gasp of surprise as the man before him came into focus.

“Paul! I-I mean…” John started, but the young man was quick to interrupt him, saving him from saying anything else that would be inappropriate or embarrassing for the both of them.

“I apologise, Mr. Lennon. I- I know I should not be here, but in all honesty, I did not have anywhere else to go,” he said, smiling apologetically at him. Pepper had started to struggle at the sight of the young gentlemen, but John hardly noticed, having only eyes for Paul himself. He noticed he was trembling, more so than what would have been expected from the wet and the cold of the evening, and his eyes were unusually wide, so, without a second thought, he stepped aside and beckoned him inside.

"Please, come in. You are completely soaked through,” he said, holding his cat a little tighter so she would not fall by accident with her struggling, but to his surprise, Paul bit his lip and glanced past him rather doubtfully, untrusting. “Mr. Sutcliffe is not in, if that is what worries you,” John added, being unsure himself as to why that would matter to him at all, but to his surprise, Paul did calm down at the reassurance and nodded, before stepping past John inside the house.

He was indeed soaked through, from his hat to his shoes, everything was covered in rain water and dirt. His hair stuck to his face as water dripped from it, and more drops of water fell off his clothes, leaving a small trail of rainwater behind has he walked into the hallway. He stood hunched over and trembling on his feet, his hands bawled up as he rubbed them together in the hope to warm them, looking rather at a loss of what to do or say. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, John put Pepper back down on the floor and started to help him remove some of his wet clothes, assisting him with his coat, scarf, and jacket, as he called on Dot, who came hurrying down the stairs, only to suddenly halt halfway as she caught sight of Paul McCartney standing in the middle of the hallway. Pepper started to walk in circles around their feet, rubbing herself against Paul’s legs and slipping between them as she purred.

“Ah, Dot! Could you dry these for me, please? Mr. McCartney will need them when he will be returning home again later this evening. And perhaps a warm cup of tea will help him warm up.”

Dot nodded and stepped closer to them, bowing her head so she would not have to look at the young gentleman, as she took his clothes from John, before disappearing back upstairs to do what had been asked of her. John was glad to note Mr. McCartney had not paid her any mind himself, and had instead glanced down at the cat with an amused grin, liking the attention she was giving him. When John started to speak, he turned his head to him, looking him directly in the eye.

“Now, I think it would be best for you to change into something else, unless you want to catch a cold. I think, I must have something that will fit you, as I suspect we are roughly the same size, so you can borrow something of mine to wear while you wait for your own clothes to dry. If that is alright with you, of course.”

Paul nodded, but his expression remained doubtful. “I am not intruding, am I? I-I can leave if you would prefer me to,” he asked, but John shook his head.

“I will not even consider it. Now, if you would follow me please, we can find you something to wear and warm you up. You must be freezing,” he said resolutely and took the man by the arm to lead him up the stairs to his bedroom on the first floor, swallowing at the rush he felt as his hand touched the other man’s arm. Pepper followed closely behind them, meowing curiously at their guest.

As they reached the small bedroom, John opened the door for them and guided Paul inside, where he motioned him to sit down on the bed as he knelt down by the small fireplace to light it. He took a couple of dry logs and a few smaller twigs, arranged them in the fireplace and lit them, using a couple of matches and his own breath to add some extra oxygen. Once he got a pretty good fire going, it seemed to warm their surroundings immediately as it lit up the room, giving it a warm, almost golden glow. Turning back at the young man on his bed, he smiled as he saw that Pepper had laid down beside him, her head resting on the man’s thigh as the man in question gently ran his fingers through her fur, petting her as he smiled down at her. The image had something domestic about it, but John preferred not to think about it. He shuffled over to them on his knees and remained knelt at the younger man’s feet as he looked up at him and attempted to catch his gaze.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as their eyes met, a slight tremor to his voice. Paul shrugged in return.

“Cold,” he answered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, and John nodded as he looked him up and down.

“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, shall we?” he suggested and Paul nodded, as he moved his fingers to the buttons of his vest. John followed them, watching as they started to pull the buttons back through the loops, thus loosening his vest button by button, exposing more of the white shirt beneath it, which was completely soaked through as well and clinging to the man’s chest, giving John an impression of his small pink nipples, which stood erect from the cold, being only just visible through the now almost see-through material. He swallowed, wondering what to do.

“I-I’ll er… I’ll get you a towel to dry yourself off with. There are some clothes is my closet. You can pick whatever you like,” he said, glancing back up into Paul’s eyes, and the younger man nodded in reply, his fingers still moving from button to button, until he had reached the last one. John nodded back at him and coughed, before he rose back up to his feet and hurried out of the room, only to meet Dot in the corridor, who was holding a couple of fluffy towels in her hands.

“Mr. Lennon, I thought Mr. McCartney might like a towel to dry himself with. The tea is almost ready, so I will bring that up once that is done,” she said, quickening her pace to catch up with him. John nodded as he took the towels from her with a small thanks.

“Is there anything else I can do, sir?”

“No, thank you, Dot. This will be all for now. You have done well. I’ll er, call for you if we need anything else.”

Dot, although she looked somewhat disappointed, nodded and left with one last small bow, leaving John alone outside the door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked once to announce himself, before he opened the door and stepped back inside, only to almost drop the towels as soon as his eyes landed on the man standing beside his bed, wearing nothing more than his tight trousers and socks, the former of which were clinging to the man’s legs in a way that made John’s brain feel fuzzy, and his bare chest of ivory skin shone in the warm light of the fire. For a moment all thought was cut off from his brain; all he could do was stare.

Even unclothed the man was gorgeous, being slim, yet not too skinny, with smooth ivory skin and ever so slightly muscular arms, which were decorated with small brown hairs. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat, and his hips narrow, and there was a little trail of light brown hairs leading from his bellybutton down into his trousers, guiding John’s gaze down. He gave himself a little mental corrective kick for looking at him so freely, and forced himself to look away from him, offering the man some privacy, as any well-manner young man was supposed to do in a situation such as this.

“I er… I have a towel for you here that you can use. As I have said, you can help yourself to some of my clothes, and there must be a small wooden drying rack at the back of the closet from which you can hang your own clothes so they can dry before the fire,” John said, and Paul nodded as he walked over to him, the sound of his feet thumping lightly on the floor making it difficult for John to keep his eyes lowered.

“Thank you,” he said once he was only two feet away from John. The latter finally looked up at him and forced himself to not look anywhere else but his face as he offered him the towels he was holding, which he took with thankful nod.

“I shall give you some privacy then,” John said, his voice tight, and Paul uttered a thank you as he turned around and walked back to the bed, unwittingly giving John one last opportunity to sneak a look at him. He frowned as he saw a darker spot on the back of his neck and low on his hip, but he did not dare to ask about, figuring Paul would most likely find such a question in appropriate. “I will be in the kitchen downstairs if you need anything.”

“Thank you, John. I truly appreciate this,” Paul said, and with one last nod, John walked out of the room and closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief. It was only when he was halfway down the stairs that he realised Paul had called him by his first name, though he was uncertain what exactly he had to make from that.

It was not long before Paul returned downstairs and walked into the kitchen wearing a set of John’s clothes, which were only slightly too big on him. He had kept it simple, wearing only a grey pair of trousers, which hung low on his hips due to the lack of a belt, and a simple white button-down shirt, but even though his clothes were not what John would consider flattering under normal circumstances, he still caught himself looking at him longer than what would be considered appropriate. At least, Paul had not yet seemed to have noticed the effect he had been having, and took a seat at the small table when John offered him one, smiling as he put down a cup of tea before him.

“Thank you, and thanks again for the letting me in. I realise it was rather rude of me to come here without notifying you at first,” Paul said, taking his cup in his left hand and blowing some air on it to cool it a little, before taking a sip, careful not to burn his tongue. John shook his head and took the seat opposite him.

“It really is no bother, Paul. And please stop thanking me every two minutes, it is making me feel uneasy. I am only doing what any person would do,” he told him, and the younger man nodded, though he did not seem convinced by that last.

“I suppose so,” he said, and he took another sip of his tea as he looked around the kitchen, taking in his surroundings. Unlike the last time they had sat at this table together, upon their first meeting for the portrait when they had sat here while John had finished his dinner, he now looked genuinely interested in it, and even in him, making legitimate effort to maintain their conversation, albeit rather clumsily, but John decided to humour him anyway, appreciating the attempt. “So, you live here then?”

“In a way, I do. Actually, I live with my aunt, and I do try to visit her as often as my work allows me to, but her house is too far away from here for me to travel up and down to work almost every day, so Mr. Edwards offered me the spare room upstairs when I first started here. He holds part of my income in exchange, but it is much cheaper than if I had bought a room by myself, which I really cannot  afford on my small weekly salary.”

“That is very generous of him,” Paul remarked and John glanced up at him as he nodded.

“Yes… yes it is. He is a kind man, you know. Strict, certainly, but kind.”

“And, you live with your aunt?” Paul asked, and John nodded once more, but did not say anything in the hope Paul would let it rest at that, not wanting to go deeper into that aspect of his life, and to his relief, he did not have to today. The other man looked down at his tea and stared into it for a moment, seeming lost in thought, which caught John’s curiosity. He wanted to ask him what he was doing here, why he was not at home or with other friends or acquaintances of his. After all, he barely even knew him, and yet here he was, wearing his clothes and drinking his tea in his kitchen, while his own clothes hung out to dry in his bedroom from the sudden rain that had started to fall down from heaven an hour or two ago. It was rather curious, and he wanted to know more, know what was bothering him, but he felt it would be to bold to ask and mingle in his personal affairs; it was not his position, after all.

“My aunt, she does not mind terribly, though. Since uncle George died she has been having it difficult, money-wise that is, so she appreciates my help. Of course, she would rather have had me do something else, but at least I am doing something that is of some use,” John continued, not wanting the conversation to turn uncomfortable, though he was unsure why he had chosen this subject to talk to the other man about, especially after Stuart’s warning about him last Friday. Because, even if he felt that his friend might be wrong about him, he had noticed that Stuart knew more about Paul and his family than he had let on, especially if his father had been a tenant at the McCartney estate, meaning it was probably good to keep a safe distance from him until he had more knowledge to make a proper judgement himself. For some reason, however, it felt easy to talk about such things to Paul. Maybe exactly because they barely knew anything substantial about one another – it was safer.

“You do not earn this money for yourself?” Paul asked, looking up at him in what seemed like honest surprise.

“No. Or at least, I keep what I need for all my basic needs, like food and clothes, and all else I send to my aunt. Thankfully, living here I get some things almost for free, like dinners and breakfasts, as my master buys the shopping for that, so it is relatively inexpensive for me,” John explained and Paul nodded as he looked John up and down, a small smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. “What?” John asked with a chuckle.

Paul shrugged. “I just had not expected something like that from you. You are rather… well… sweet, I suppose one could say.”

“And you are rather pleasant company, which _I_ had not expected,” John replied without thinking about it, but fortunately, Paul only chuckled at that, and did not take offence as John had feared for a brief moment.

“What is it that you do then? When you are not working?”

“I write, read, play piano when I can, and, of course, paint.”

“Paint?”

“Oh yes, of course. Doing people’s portraits wasn’t what I had always wanted to do, you see, but at least it allows me to earn a decent amount of money. As an aspiring artist, your income is rather non-existent, you see,” John said and Paul chuckled again as he nodded. John could not help but think his laughter as being “cute”, which was a strange adjective to use to describe Paul from the stories he had heard, but it was simply what came to mind as he listened to it, though “magical” still remained in the back of his mind.

“And what exactly is it that you paint, Mr. Lennon. I must admit that I am rather interested in art myself, so one cannot help but wonder, as I am sure you understand.”

“I like portraits, but I like nature landscapes and cities as well. Would you like to see?” John asked, smiling as Paul nodded. He stood up and beckoned Paul to come with him, as he led him back upstairs to his bedroom, where he had his own art stored away, as Mr. Edwards did not like to have it lying around in the studio where the clients would come. Paul followed closely behind him in silence, not saying anything as they walked back into John’s bedroom, where the fire was still smouldering in the fireplace. The younger man let his fingers slide over the material of his clothes, seeing whether they were drying, but much to his disappointment they were still wet. In the meantime, John had opened the drawers of his desk, pushed the drawings he had done of Paul aside, not wanting the man in question to see those, and got out some of his work that he was satisfied with, most of them being scenic landscapes of Liverpool, especially around the docks. He handed them to Paul with trembling hands, nervous to hear the man’s opinion of them, knowing him being interested in art was an understatement. He was knowledgeable, to say the least, and would often attend events of the most prestigious art galleries that had started to emerge all around Europe in the last couple of decades, to buy and sell, but fancying himself somewhat of a critic as well. Needless to say, John valued his opinion highly. He watched with anticipation as Paul looked through his work, humming at and examining different aspects of his work, his face never giving anything away.

“I have to say, these are really good. You continue to surprise me,” Paul finally spoke after what seemed like far too long, and John let out a sigh of relief as he smiled up at him, feeling how his stomach twisted at those words, making him feel nauseous.

“Do you really think so?” he asked, eager to hear the answer, yet nervous in case he had misheard Paul the first time.

“Oh yes. It is very promising. Naturally, I have seen more interesting works, but it is better than some of the art I have seen exhibited in Vienna, Prague, or Paris. Then again, I never gave those longer than five seconds,” Paul said and John frowned as he tried to understand what exactly the man thought of his work, his way of wording it being rather confusing. In the end, he decided that if Paul was to compare him with such artists who got their art exhibited, that could only be positive.

He looked up at him and studied his profile as Paul continued to examine his work, his expression serious, but with a hint of pleasant surprise that twinkled in his eye, giving him away. His fingertips traced the sides of the artwork, slender fingers gently moving along the edges in an almost tender way. His cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the fire, and his plump lips moved ever so slightly, as if he was muttering things to himself, words that John could not hear, only meant for himself like some kind of open secret. Once again, he found himself wondering what such a man was doing here with him, but unlike last time, he could not swallow the question down, repress it in favour of good manners, and he could hear himself say it, causing Paul to turn his head at him in surprise, before he smiled sadly.

“I do not have many friends, Mr. Lennon,” he replied and laid a number of the  artworks onto the desk in front of him, before moving to sit down on the bed, his arms resting on his thighs as he went through the three he was still holding. John followed him with his eyes and before he knew what he was doing, his feet had brought him to his bed and he had taken a seat beside him, their bodies only inches apart.

“I find that hard to believe,” he said, but Paul shook his head.

“I know people do not like me. I am not likeable, as I well know. If I had gone anywhere else, they would have let me in, I can be certain about that, but they would not have done so for the right reasons. I do not want to be merely tolerated, either out of fear for my family or for myself, and with you I knew you would not care about any of that. You would have turned me away if I was unwanted.”

“You came to me, because you were certain I would turn you away?”

“I suppose there is some irony to be found in my coming to the one person who was the most likely to refuse me, I’ll admit,” Paul said with a small grin, amused by his own atypical logic, but John could understand what he meant, and thus refrained from laughing along. After all, he could understand what it was like to not be wanted somewhere, to feel as if no one cared for you. Yet, he was surprised by such sentiment expressed by the younger man, not having expected such thoughts from a man like him, someone who - in John’s mind, as in the mind of most people - had everything he could desire, and could buy whatever else he might wish for. For a moment the two men only looked at each other, saying nothing and leaving the other to his thoughts, as they studied each other’s face and the shadows that danced upon them in the flickering light of the fire. Paul’s eyes, John noticed, were almost honey coloured in this light, warm and sweet, yet light and glistening, matching the colours of the embers that sprung up from the fire. His eyelids hung low over his eyes as he looked down at him, tracing the lines of his face as he studied him, his eyes finally resting on his lips, and for a moment it looked like he was coming closer to him.

The movement had to have been minuscule, barely noticeable to anyone who would have looked at the two men in that moment, and even for John if it hadn’t been for the fact that he could suddenly feel the warmth of Paul’s breath on his face, brushing his lips. He felt how his own fingers trembled where they rested on his thighs at the thought - the mere suggestion - of what Paul might do, the possibilities making him both nervous and afraid. He was unsure if he was disappointed or relieved when Paul moved away, turning his gaze away from him and back to the fireplace before him, watching the wood burn.

“We er… could do some work on the portrait if you would like?” John suggested, feeling the need to break the silence between them after that odd moment between them, but Paul shook his head.

“No, I think I should better go. The portrait is in no real hurry to be finished, as far as I am aware, and I do not wish to overstay my welcome.”

“Oh, it is no bother. Or perhaps some supper?”

“No, thank you, John. I really should be heading home. My father will not be pleased with me if I return home late, and I still need to walk to The King’s Arms, where my coach will be waiting for you. Thank you, though, for everything,” Paul said as he laid the last of the artworks aside on John’s bed and rose to his feet.

“If you are certain,” John said as he stood up as well, feeling little to see him go so soon, “I’ll have Dot bring you your clothes. I don’t think they will be dry, but at least it will give you something to wear outside. At least the rain has stopped.”

“Yes, I suppose that is good. I’ll er… better go change so you can have your clothes back,” Paul said, but John stopped him right away, laying a hand on his arm to catch his attention as he shook his head.

“Oh, no. I insist that you will not. Yours are still wet, and it will not do to let you catch a cold out there. You can return my clothes at our next meeting, and please, take an umbrella with you if you still need to walk all that way. You can never trust the weather here,” he said and Paul nodded thankfully in reply, and watched as John started to gather his clothes for him, folding them up before handing them to the younger man and guiding him downstairs, as he called for Dot to get the rest of Mr. McCartney’s clothes. They had only just stepped down the last step, when Dot came into the hallway with Paul’s jacket, scarf, and coat, which she handed to him with a polite nod, helping him into the latter, and handing him the rest.

“Thank you, dear,” Paul said to her with a little wink, watching with amusement as she giggled in return and wished him a bashful goodnight, before walking away with an excited little skip, much to John’s annoyance. He had been about to wish Paul the same, when Paul reached into the pocket of his coat and got out some money, which he briefly counted, before turning to the other man and offering it to him.

“Wh-what is this?” John asked, glancing at the money in Paul’s hand with a frown.

“Just a small thank you for your trouble. Do something fun with it for a change, instead of being a good nephew,” the younger man explained, and before John could object, he had already dropped it into John’s hand, folding his fingers close around it. “I insist on it, Mr. Lennon.”

“Why, thank you, sir.”

“Paul. Please, call me Paul.”

“Thank you, _Paul_ ,” John corrected himself obediently, and Paul smiled at that, before wrapping his scarf around his neck, and taking one of the umbrellas that stood by the door, after which he turned the door handle and opened the front door, causing a gush of cold wind to blow into the house, making John shiver.

“Good night, Mr. Lennon. I suggest we shall see each other again this Friday, if you do not mind. Seeing as we have already seen each other today, it might be best to give this Wednesday a miss, and give us both our free evening back, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, if you would prefer. And er… Paul?” John asked, biting his lip as he considered his next words with care, “if you ever feel the need to, know that you are always welcome here. It’s fine.”

Paul smiled at that in return and with one last polite nod, he stepped out of the house and into the cold evening, closing the door behind himself as he walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

John stood overlooking the river as he watched the ships bob quietly up and down the gentle waves that rolled in from the sea and into the harbour. It was a quiet afternoon at the docks, the sun shining brightly and the weather being soft with little wind and only the occasional cloud in the sky to block away the watery light of the sun. Overhead, he could hear the seagulls calling and the sails of the ships rustle in the wind as the wood of the boats creaked under the impact of the water. Once or twice, a dog came rushing by him, barking or sniffing around for any forgotten fish that had fallen from the nets of the fishing boats, while sailors and seamen were shouting directions, orders, and whatever else at each other while they worked. Some were singing songs, seeming joyful and at ease as they followed the orders that had been shouted their way the best they could. Although he rarely came here, John liked going to the docks, the sounds and that salty seawater smell having a soothing effect on him and allowing him to clear and order his mind, to for once think and worry about nothing.

The week following Paul McCartney’s unusual and unexpected late-night visit had gone by without much ado, the days passing by with so much ease and quiet that John had hardly noticed the days moving on from one to the next, the minutes, hours and days melting together as he lost track of time, only needing to focus on the few assignments he and Stuart still had. It was a pleasant rhythm to work in, without any haste or urgency, and he often found himself stretched out on his bed in the evenings with a fire roaring in the fireplace and a good book in his hand to read while he’d drink his tea, only to drift off into a peaceful slumber and be awoken again that following morning by one of his cats, who would stand meowing on his chest, demanding breakfast. It was a comfortable routine and John felt himself growing into it.

Even his meetings with Paul, which at first had been a great source of worry and anticipation, had become more relaxed, quieter as they became routine. Neither had mentioned anything about that unexpected visit, and even when Paul had given him his clothes and umbrella back, he had done so with only a softly muttered “thank you” as he had refused to look John in the eye, seeming bashful and almost ashamed about what had transpired between them some nights before. John, having noticed the younger man’s embarrassment, had merely nodded in reply and handed the stack of clothes to Dot to be put away and had not made any other mention about that night for the remains of the evening or during any of the other meetings they had had, and neither had Paul, who had not seemed to have minded. Still, John wondered often why Paul had turned up at his doorstep that evening, but he had not dared to ask in the hope to keep his relationship with Paul as good as it was, knowing now that the younger man had taken a liking to him for whatever reason, and wanting to keep it that way.

But even if their relationship was evolving into a much better direction than John had first expected it to when Mr. Edwards had told him about the assignment, and the two of them were becoming more comfortable in each other’s presence, at the same time John felt a distance between them that had not been there before. Although he did not know what he had expected after that evening when Paul had showed up at his door, soaked through to the skin and trembling from the cold, without any given explanation, he had felt somewhat disappointed when he had seen Paul again that Friday and he had been cold and distant towards him, more so even than during the meetings before that. Apart from his initial bashful reaction when he had given John his belongings back, his face had been expressionless for the majority of the time, and he had barely spoken a word more than what had been absolutely necessary. The careful smiles he had offered John that evening had been reduced to mere twitches at the corners of his lips, and the twinkle in his eye had vanished, leaving behind a mere dull gaze. He had barely even looked at him, studying his nails instead as he was in the habit of doing, or looking straight past him when he did need to look up. The contrast was so stark against how he had been that other evening, when he had been kind and smiling, when he had given him compliments on his art, when he had asked him questions and had showed what had seemed at the time like genuine interest, and when he had even spoken about himself, that it made John wonder if perhaps he had done something wrong.

Sighing, he looked up at the sky and watched a couple of birds fly overhead as he felt the cold of the sea wind crawl into his clothes, making him shiver and hope he would see his dear friend sooner rather than later, longing to step inside somewhere warm and enjoy a couple glasses of gin to warm him up from the outside cold. To his luck, he soon heard a group of young sailors and seamen laugh and chatter with what John could only guess was the usual wit and mockery, as they strolled from one of the ships and over the docks into his direction, one of the voices being distinctly Richard’s, with his typical bright and jaunty tone of voice – it never failed to bring a smile to his face. As soon as Richard’s eyes fell upon the other man, his smile grew wider, stretching all across his face, and he called out his name, to which John replied with a polite wave, feeling rather self-conscious as the other men looked up at him curiously and said goodbye to Richard, who broke free from the group to join John instead. Once the men turned around to go further on their way, John teared his eyes away from them and turned to his friend, who pulled him in for a tight hug almost immediately, which John reciprocated just as firmly, having missed his dear friend.

“John! I had not expected to see you here! I hope you were not waiting for too long. If I had known you were coming, I would have made some haste,” Richard spoke as he squeeze John firmly before releasing him, the big smile still plastered on his face. His big blue eyes sparkled up at John as he looked up at him, his gaze sweeping over his friend’s features as if he could hardly believe it was him; he was clearly as happy to see him as John was.

“Don’t worry about it, Richie! I don’t mind waiting for you, and the weather is wonderful, so really it was no punishment to wait. Besides, I wanted to surprise you.”

“And you did! How did you know I would be here today?”

“Stuart said he had received word that your ship was to arrive today, so I thought it might do well to welcome you back home. But how about we speak further someplace else? What about a drink? I could do with something to warm myself,” John suggested and Ringo agreed right away, clearly eager to get someplace warm himself after having been on that ship for almost five months. They made their way to a nearby pub, situated just a two-minute walk away from the docks, that was mostly frequented by sailors, pursers, and the occasional officer or captain. It was a rowdy place, but warm and cosy with good drinks and even some easy-to-make foods if you were hungry and a couple of beds upstairs one could rent for about two pence a night if you were willing to share.

As they walked inside the small pub, Richard was greeted by a couple of men who had already taken a seat and were enjoying a drink of their own, talking with loud booming voices, as if they were still on the ship sailing the rough seas rather than sitting within close proximity of each other in a small English pub, enjoying a good drink, where they could speak at a reduced volume. Richard acknowledged the men with some polite words and a nod or a handshake, as he and John made their way to the back of the room to take a seat at one of the few empty tables that were still left. Once there, they took off their coats, hung them over the back of their seats and John waited until Ringo had taken a seat before offering him something to drink, intending to pay for it with the money Paul had given him about a week ago for his trouble that evening. He had not known what to spend it on, barely ever buying himself any kind of luxury, and knowing Stuart would not wish to drink anything that was paid for with money that was given to either of them by that family, his dislike for them and the assignment still not having mitigated since he had first learned about it almost two weeks ago. John doubted, however, that Ringo would mind, seeing as the sailor had a rather friendly and open-minded disposition; he would not have acted any differently if he had found himself in the same situation as John had.  

Richard reacted with surprise at his offer, but simply smiled as he told him he’d have the same as he, and watched curiously as John walked off towards the bar to get them both a glass of gin, glad to be able to buy his friend something for a change, not having been able to do so since he had moved out of his little bedroom at his aunt’s house. Once he came back, he put the two glasses down at their table and sat down on the wooden stool opposite Richard. The two made a toast to Richard’s return and drank their drinks in one go, so John could buy them another one.

“So,” Richard started once John returned for a second time and waited until he had sat back down before he continued, “how did you get by that money, if you don’t mind me asking? Last time I saw you, you were sending it all to your dear aunt, if I am not mistaken.”

“You are not.” John chuckled. “And under normal circumstances I am, but you could say these are not normal circumstances.”

“What is it then? Surely, you don’t mean me.”

“New client. A very well-off client, in fact.”

“And who, might I ask, is this very well-off client of yours?”

“Mr. James Paul McCartney,” John answered, smirking as he watched his friend’s eyes grow wide at the mention of his name, his lips moving as he repeated the name quietly to himself. “Or rather, it was his father who commissioned it, but it is for the eldest son and I only ever have contact with him, you see. Mr. Edwards was supposed to originally take the assignment of course, but he had another pressing assignment that required him to leave Liverpool for a couple of weeks, so it was given to me instead.”

“I can hardly believe it, John. An assignment for the McCartneys… How is that going? I can imagine it can be difficult at times?”

“At times. But in all honesty, it is not as bad as I had expected it to be. When Mr. Edwards first told me about it, I thought he had lost his marbles to ask that of me. I mean, you have heard the same stories about the family as I have, and to have to work with the _eldest_ son as well, I thought I would be lucky if I would not end up in prison by the end of our first meeting, but thankfully, the young man seems to have taken a liking to me exactly for those faults that I had expected would ruin me. He himself is rather pleasant to work with too, you could say. Of course, his handsome features are a joy to draw for any artist, but he is far from that horrid, arrogant, and self-satisfied git that I had heard so much about. Of course, he is still all those things, but… it is not all there is to him. I can’t quite describe it, if I am honest; the man is somewhat of a mystery to me.”

“He fascinates you, then?”

“Yes, but every artist ought to be fascinated by their subject.”

“And the money?” Ringo asked as he leaned closer to his friend, curious to hear more. John grinned.

“Another fascinating aspect of our Mr. McCartney,” he said, lowering his voice so no one else could hear what they were discussing. “The usual payments go through his father and Mr. Edwards, so I have not seen any of that yet, nor do I know how much the McCartneys are willing to pay for this portrait of mine, but one evening the young man showed up at my doorstep completely unexpected, soaked through and shivering from the cold without any explanation. Naturally, I let him in and helped him get warm and dry, and before he left, he handed me some money for my troubles.”

“Did he?”

“Oh, yes. It was the most curious thing. Of course, I initially refused his offering, but he insisted. Things like that make you wonder, don’t they?”

“I suppose they do. Say, speaking of the McCartneys, have you ever visited their estate? Some of the gardens are free to the people of Liverpool, believe it or not.”

“No, I haven’t. We only meet at the studio. But that _is_ hard to believe. Do you think Mr. McCartney senior is aware of that?”

“He probably does not mind because hardly anyone takes advantage of it. Most people have the tendency to keep away from them as much as possible.”

“But not you?” John asked, amused, and took another sip of his drink.

“Nor you, it seems now. But you have to have seen it at least once. It is absolutely gorgeous. I often go there just for a walk and to get some fresh air; being on a ship for most of your life, makes living in a city somewhat claustrophobic at times, you know, so going for a long walk in those lovely lush gardens is a great way for me to handle it, and the gardens are so immense, I have barely ever seen any of the family members – they tend to keep to the gardens closer to the manor, so they are easy to avoid.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

“You must have been the manor up close at least once, John, and the gardens are wonderful to walk through. Personally, I could use some fresh air,” Ringo said with a shrug, causing John to laugh.

“Some fresh air?! I would have thought you would have gotten enough of that after having been on that ship for five months,” he said, but Richard shook his head.

“The salty air of the sea is very different from the flowery air of a well-kept garden, John. Besides, I have had enough of this pub and we could talk while we walk. It is such a pleasant day. Let us find a coach to bring us there and go for a walk,” he said with an excited smile and before John could object he had already gotten to his feet and was pulling on a coat. John sighed deeply, before agreeing to come with him. Besides, he was curious now what the McCartney estate would look like from up close, only ever having seen it up on that hill from the city below.

The two men quickly finished their drinks and put their coats back on before leaving the pub and making their way towards the manor house while keeping an eye out for any coaches they could rent to take them up to the manor. It only took them a few minutes, and before they knew it, John had paid for the ride with the last of his money and they were sitting closely together in the small coach as they drove up the hill. From the side window above the door, they could see the impressive manor house crawl up into view in the distance – it was a stunning sight, John had to admit, and he found himself unable to look away. They spoke some more about the McCartneys and John’s assignment as the coach drove on, Richard being eager to hear all about it and John being glad to finally have someone with whom he could talk about it without needing to listen to any nagging about the family in response, not having been able to do that with Stuart or even Cynthia. He loved both friends deeply, but there were things he felt more comfortable to talk about with Richard.  

Once the coach came to a halt, the two men hurried to get out of the coach and Richard paid the driver something extra as he asked if he would mind waiting here until they would be back, to which the driver easily agreed, much to Richard’s surprise. John, however, did not much care about the driver or how they would go back home, his full attention having been captured by the impressive manor house so close before him, separated from him only by a large iron gate that refused to give when John pushed against it in an attempt to open it.

The manor house was gorgeous, more so even up close than when he had seen it from the city below, with gorgeous smooth sandstone that coloured golden in the light of the low-hanging autumn sun, and the many thick-glazed windows shined as they reflected the sunlight. In front of the manor, before the large, stone steps that led up to the front door, stood a gorgeous fountain of three layers with a statue of a gorgeous naked young woman, draped in long silk-looking sheets, balanced on top of it, holding up her hair as if she was afraid it would get wet. The details on it were magnificent, and John could hardly believe it was carved out of stone. He could see some men moving around before the house, who John suspected were servants, and he could even see one running around with a huge sheepdog, laughing as he tried to catch up with her. John wondered if the dog was Paul’s.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” A voice asked from behind him, and John felt himself jump in fright, not having heard his friend approaching. “Come on. We’d better not stick around here for too long. The entrance to the gardens is a little bit more to the side,” Richard continued and took a hold of John’s arm to guide him away from the manor and along the stone wall that marked off the borders of the estate. John let himself be taken away, but kept his eyes on the house, taking in every little detail, until the house disappeared behind the trees on the estate. Once they reached the next gate, Richard released his friend and spoke with one of the men who stood by the gate in some kind of uniform. He had a dog by his side. They spoke for a short while, their voices too quiet for John to hear what they were discussing, but once John caught the unknown man smiling, Richard turned around to him to beckon him over. The man opened the smaller gate for them and wished them a pleasant afternoon as the two men passed him, only to close the gate again behind them once they were through.

“We are only allowed to be here for another hour. It seems the family is receiving some guests later this afternoon and they wished not to have any unfamiliar people on the grounds then. At first he would not allow us in at all, being ordered not to, but because he knows me he was prepared to make an exception,” Ringo explained in a hushed voice as they walked on, feeling the eyes of the strange man still digging into their backs. Once they had vanished between the trees and were out of sight, the two men broke free from each other and started giggling, feeling as if they were doing something illegal by being there. They walked for a while, keeping to the winding paths that guided them through the many gardens, along the pretty coloured flowers, the tall trees with green, golden, and red leaves, and ultimately along the lake with the willows that stood hanging over it, simply taking in the beauty of it all. They could hear birds chirping and the soft wind rustling the leaves on the trees. John now understood why Richard had been so eager to go for a walk here.  

“I have missed you, you know. While you were at sea,” he told his friend as they stood turned away from the lake and went further into the more wood-like area, following the thin path that led between the trees. Richard smiled at the confession.

“I’ve missed you too. The sea might be my country and the ship my home, but my friends are something I always find myself wanting to go back for,” he said truthfully, causing John to smile in return. It wasn’t long, however, before the smile faded away again.

“You didn’t erm… hear anything new, did you? I mean, I know you hadn’t when you had sent me that letter, but you said you would still ask around if you had the chance…” John asked as he started fidgeting with the cuffs of his coat, pulling at the material nervously as he awaited his answer. Richard sighed before shaking his head.

“I am sorry, John. I did ask around, but no one had seen or heard anything about him - at least, nothing I hadn’t already told you – nor could they name anyone who might be of any help.”

“That’s okay. At least you tried, and it is not like we had expected anything to come out of it. It doesn’t matter.”

“I promise I’ll keep asking around. Surely someone must know something about him,” Richard said and John smiled at him thankfully as he nodded.

“Thank you, Richie. I really appreciate this,” John replied and Richard could see that he meant it, so he nodded in return and did not say anything more on the subject, much to John’s relief, not feeling like discussing it any more than that. They spoke some more about Richard’s adventures during those five months he had been away at sea and John filled in his friend on everything that had happened while he had been away, watching in amusement at his friends little reactions of excitement as he told him about how much Maureen had missed him during his absence. They had just been on their way back to the entrance of the estate, not wanting to get the person who had let them in the gardens into trouble, when they suddenly heard the sounds of hooves stomping on the leaves-covered ground underneath their feet, followed by a familiar voice that called out John’s name.

“Mr. Lennon! What a surprise to see you here? Enjoying a late-afternoon walk, I see!” the voice called and John frowned as he slowly turned around and let out a tiny gasp as he saw it was none other than Mr. Paul McCartney, sitting high on a horse with a healthy flush on his cheeks, indicating he had probably been riding for a while. Even his breathing was heavier than normally.

“Mr. McCartney! We er… Yes, we were. Erm… This is my friend, Mr. Richard Starkey,” he answered, trying his hardest to be polite. Paul turned his eyes on Richard and nodded at him as he wished him a pleasant afternoon, to which Richard replied with a smile of his own, wishing him the same.

“We are sorry to be here, sir,” Richard said. “One of your servants had informed us at the gate that you did not want any visitors on the grounds today, but he said it would be alright for us as long as we stayed away from the manor and would not stay longer than an hour. We er… we were just about to leave, in fact.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. My father is always a little apprehensive about strangers on the estate, but I can assure you, it is no trouble. I am the only one who ever comes in these parts. Neither my father, nor my brother are particularly fond of riding or going on long walks, so you are completely safe,” Paul said with a somewhat forced smile, and John smiled back at him, hoping to be able to keep this from turning uncomfortable between the three of them. He had just been about to make some nonsense comment on the weather and the loveliness of the garden when he spotted a nasty-looking bruise just under the younger man’s left eye, causing him to frown. Before he realised what he was doing, he had made a comment about it.

“You have a bruise on your cheek,” he said, as he unconsciously took a step forward. Right away, the man’s hand shot to his cheek, and he gently touched the spot with his fingertips, as if he were surprised it was there at all.

“Oh yes… I er… fell of my horse yesterday. It is not as bad as it looks, I assure you. One of the rose bushes broke my fall, thankfully, but sadly it did not leave me unscarred,” he said with a light-hearted chuckle, but there was an uncharacteristic tremor in his voice that made John doubt he was being truthful. Still, he did not say anything about, knowing Paul did not owe him any kind of explanation, but still it struck him as odd.

“Well,” Paul continued as he brushed a few hair out of his face, “I am afraid I must need to make my way back to the manor house. We have some important visitors coming this afternoon, so I must not be late, or my father will not be pleased with me. Mr. Starkey, it was nice to make your acquaintance, and Mr. Lennon, I shall see you the day after tomorrow, of course. These visitors will be staying for a couple of days, so I might be a little later than usual, but I assume that will not pose any problems, will it?”

“Oh no, sir. That is quite alright,” John replied right away and Paul nodded in return.

“I take it you two know how to find your way back? And you have a carriage to take you back into the city? If not, I could offer you one of our carriages. I am quite certain my father would not mind it if you were to borrow one.”

“Oh no, sir. Thanks for the offer, but that won’t be necessary. We have a coach waiting for us by the entrance,” Richard swiftly replied and Paul nodded again in understanding, before wishing them both a pleasant day and guiding his horse around to make his way back to the manor house. John watched him as he drove off, still wondering about the bruise. When he turned back to his friend, he noticed him grinning knowingly at him.

“What?”

“You. I can see you have taken a liking to _him_ as well, haven’t you?” he said teasingly with a wink. John simply rolled his eyes at the insinuation and took his friend by the arm before dragging him with him into the direction of the entrance gate while muttering how laughable the thought alone was to him, despite knowing that lying to his friend would not work – he had always had the uncanny ability to look straight through his lies, and so it would also be with this.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful, John. Mr. McCartney is not just any young man, as I know you are well aware.”

“I told you, I am not interested in him!”

“You did seem awfully concerned about his bruise, but if you say you are not interested, than I suppose I shall have to believe that. Such a pity, though.”

“Pity? Why is it a pity?”

“Because you were right. He _has_ taken a liking to you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Paul rode on quietly and slowed his pace as the stables began to come into view, feeling reluctant to go any further in the knowledge of what was waiting for him if he did. His brother’s fiancée, Miss Angela Fishwick, was due to arrive sometime this afternoon and have dinner with them as a way to celebrate the match in private before something a lot more public and festive would be organised to make the official announcement. His father in particular had been most excited about finally meeting the young lady, being overtly pleased with the match and to be able to see his youngest son getting married, unlike their mother - may her soul rest in peace – which Paul had had to hear many more times a day than he could possibly keep count of.

It was not so much the engagement that Paul disliked, but everything that was happening around it. He wanted his brother to find happiness and he was certain Miss Fishwick would be able to give him that as his wife, having met her once before when he had been in London for a week and remembering only good things about her, but it was hard to express that when all the engagement had done for him so far was make it so obviously clear what a disappointment he was to his father. After all, he was the eldest – the heir – if there was anyone who was supposed to get married, it was him, and his father made sure to let him know exactly how he felt about his failure to find himself a proper wife, be it explicitly or implicitly.

Still, Paul was well aware that all he could do to appease his father was to model himself to be the perfect son, to be polite yet firm when needed, well-mannered, well-spoken, calm and composed, punctual to an extent where he was never too late nor too early, and, most importantly, to be obedient, but as with most things, it cost more effort than one might have expected. He wondered how long it would be until she would arrive, needing some time still to gather his thoughts and change into something more suitable, knowing his father would not appreciate him meeting her and her family in his riding clothes. It wasn’t the first time this week that he longed for the days when his brother had still been his little brother and he hadn’t needed to worry about any of this yet – when life had been simple, or more so at least than now.

Taking a deep breath, he took hold of the reins a little tighter and sped up his pace again, figuring that as long as he behaved as his father wanted him to, there would be no trouble. Miss Fishwick herself was pleasant company, after all, and putting it off would only add to his problems, which is the last thing he wanted. As he reached the stables, he was greeted by one of the stable boys who just came walking out of the building, ready to take his horse from him and bring her inside to look after her. It was the young handsome one, with the muscular arms, the chiselled face and those striking blue eyes, which for the faintest moment reminded him of Mr. Lennon’s friend, Mr. Starkey, though he was soon forgotten again as the young lad smiled at him; he had dimples in his cheeks whenever he laughed. Gently, he pulled his horse to a halt just outside the stables where the boy was waiting for him.

“Afternoon, Mr. McCartney. Had a pleasant ride?” the boy said, reaching out to take the horse’s reins from him as Paul expertly climbed down his horse, landing firmly with both feet onto the ground.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Ewan. Please, take Mary to her stable for me,” he said, his voice coming across colder and more forceful than he had intended it to, the nerves for that coming evening already getting to him. He petted his horse on her neck to thank and praise her, before handing her over to the other man to be taken care of, wishing he had the time to do it himself. It had been a while since he had had the time. “Make sure you treat her well. She has more than deserved it.”

“Yes. Naturally, sir. Is erm… is everything alright? You seem tense.”

“I am perfectly fine. At least, as far I can be with my brother’s fiancée arriving later this afternoon. I am probably going to be late too, if I do not hurry along. My father will have my head,” Paul said with an exasperated sigh as he continued to take off his gloves and riding cap, running a hand through his hair to push it back into its proper place. When he turned his head to look at the stable boy, he noticed he was still watching him, studying him with wide eyes as he held the reins loosely in his hand, giving off no impression that he was going to move soon. “Well? Come on, come on! Hurry on and do your job, or else it will be your fault I am late. “

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Mr. Ewan replied hastily, as if suddenly jerking awake, and without any further ado, he led the horse back inside the stables, where he would brush her and clean her hooves before bringing her her evening meal. Paul followed them inside, still carrying his things and being eager to return to the manor to change and perhaps take a bath if possible, only now realising how much he had been sweating.

“I must be honest, sir – if  I may be so bold – I had expected you to be back sooner. You have been away for quite a while,” Mr. Ewan started again as he tied the horse to her stable and started to take off her saddle and other riding gear before hanging it on one of the nearby racks, so he could put it away properly after he had finished. Paul watched him as he worked, leaning against the rough stone stable walls as he took in the sight, which was simply too attractive not to take advantage of, even during moments as this.

“I got distracted,” he answered simply, a tiny smile escaping as he had to think of John, while at the same time cursing himself for having been so awkward during their brief meeting. It was rather odd, as he usually had no trouble holding a conversation. Then again, nothing had gone as it usually did when it came to him; it was a dangerous situation, Paul had to admit.

“Distracted, sir?”

“Yes, distracted, and I am under no obligation to tell you by what, so I will not. It is best for me to not give it too much thought. And don’t forget to comb her tail, it’s getting rough at certain parts,” Paul said and Mr. Ewan nodded to let his master know he had heard his wishes as he continued to brush the horse, occasionally petting her neck to tell her she was doing well.

“If it is not too out of my place to say, sir, you are not too late yet,” he said after a while and Paul could not help but chuckle at that.

“What do you mean by that? That I am worrying about nothing?”

“N-no, sir. I only meant-“

“I know what you meant, Mr. Ewan. I-I just… The last couple of days have been rather stressful for me,” Paul said with a sigh, causing the young lad to turn around and look at him. As their eyes met, Paul pushed himself off the wall and put his riding gear down before walking over to the other man to grab a brush himself and assist him, allowing their shoulders to brush together as he stood beside him. “I am sorry I was late. I ran into some people while riding and forgot the time. I hope you weren’t waiting for me.”

“Don’t worry about me, sir. It was not important.”

“No, it was. I am sorry I can’t make more time free for you.”

“You do not need to apologise, sir. I understand. You are busy, as am I. I know you have more important things on your mind than pleasing me,” the boy said and Paul gently lay his free hand onto his, stopping his hand and keeping the brush still, as he watched for a reaction, smiling as he saw a light flush appear on his cheeks.

“Stanley…” he muttered, but before he could continue, they were interrupted by someone knocking onto the large wooden door, catching them both off guard. Mr. Ewan swiftly pulled his hand away from Paul’s and turned around to pretend he was occupied with something else, refusing to look at the other man. Paul sighed and reluctantly turned around to see who had interrupted them, groaning as he saw it was his brother.

“Mike, what are you doing here?” he said, his voice almost a growl.

“I do apologise for interrupting, but father asked me come get you. Miss Fishwick and her brother and father are due to arrive soon and he does not want you to be late. Frankly, I have to agree,” Michael said as he stepped into the stables, his hands clasped behind his back. Paul let out a mere hum in response and turned back to his horse to continue brushing her, much to his brother’s annoyance. “So, if you would like to come with me, that would be fantastic. It would be rude for us to be late.”

“You go on ahead. I will be right there with you.”

“Sorry, Paul. Father told me to escort you there.”

“ _Escort_ me?! I am quite capable of walking on my own, thank you. What does he think I am? A child?”

“Please, just come with me. This is important to me, you understand? If I mess this up…” Mike asked, almost begged, sounding rather pleading and Paul could not say no to that, so he acquiesced with a deep sigh, putting the brush back down and moving to get his gloves, leaving all else for the stable boys to take care off.

“Alright. I’ll come with you. Mr. Ewan, you can take it from here, you know what to do. And erm… I will be retiring early this evening. Around ten, I’d say. Just so you know,” Paul said, giving the boy in question a firm look as the latter glanced up at him in surprise. As soon as he realised what he was hinting at, the flush returned to his cheeks and he nodded in understanding, before turning back to his work with a nervously muttered “Yes, sir”, causing a smug little grin to appear on Paul’s face. When he turned back to his brother, he caught him rolling his eyes at him in disapproval, but he pretended not to see, not caring what his brother thought of his choices and decisions on matters that did not concern him – it was still _his_ life.

As the two brothers reached the large manor house after a short walk, both were surprised to see a carriage waiting on the drive way, just below the stairs that led up to the front door, which they realised had to be the Fishwick’s carriage. Michael cursed to himself under his breath, before quickening his pace, dragging his brother along with him as he ignored is sputtered protests.

“They must have arrived early,” he muttered, his nails digging into his brother’s wrist as he pulled him along. Paul remained silent as he followed his brother, swallowing thickly at the knowledge that his father would not be pleased with him being late – certainly not now he had caused his brother to be late as well. Lately, it seemed as if he could do nothing right, as if the universe was working against him in a desperate attempt undermine him one way or another, although Paul could not think of any reason why the universe might have it out for him. They hurried up to the manor and fixed themselves the best they could to make themselves look at least a little presentable, before they had one of the servants open the door for them.

The maids, Paul noticed as he walked into the entrance hall of the manor, had done their best to make the house look its best for their guest, the wooden staircase being almost as shiny as the impeccably white marble flooring, and the light from the glass chandelier glistened like diamonds were it touched the walls. In the middle of the hall, there stood a small group of people, consisting of their head butler, his father and a young lady who Paul assumed had to be Miss Fishwick – she stood with her back towards the door, meaning he could not see her face. The other two men who were with her, Paul supposed, were her brother and father. One of the maids who had been standing by the walls, came rushing over to them to take their coats from them, as well as Paul’s gloves, and in doing so alerted their father that they had finally arrived.

“Ah, there are my two sons! I knew they would be here soon. Mr. Fishwick, of course you know my eldest, Paul,” Mr. McCartney said as he guided the attention of his guests to the two young men who had just come in through the door. Mr. Fishwick and his own children turned to them and smiled politely as the two sons walked over to the party. Paul offered Mr. Fishwick his hand and greeted him with a polite “how do you do, sir”, in a faint attempt to make himself agreeable to him, but sadly Mr. Fishwick seemed to have already made up his mind about the eldest son, looking him up and down with disapproval in his eyes, clearly displeased with his rather dishevelled appearance. Still, he shook his hand and offered him a curt nod.  

“Excuse my son’s attire. He has a curious fondness for horses and riding, I am afraid. He tends to forget the time when he is out riding. A most pitiful flaw,” Mr. McCartney said in an attempt to assuage the situation a bit, and much to both his and his son’s surprise, the man lightened up at this new information and regarded Paul with a renewed fondness, the grip on Paul’s hand tightening as a smile appeared on the man’s face.

“Well, if one must have one flaw, this seems to be the least terrible one, don’t you agree, Mr. McCartney? I have a rather great fondness for riding myself, so I have to admit I more than understand this particular problem. One so easily forgets the real world when he’s out riding in nature.”

“Oh, yes… I suppose you could look at it that way…” Mr. McCartney replied, puzzled by the other man’s reaction, not having expected him to react that way, but not wishing to go against him. Paul, however, could not be more relieved.

“I quite agree, Mr. Fishwick. My father and brother, however, do not share my love for riding, so excuse them for not understanding. I will of course change into something more suitable for dinner.”

“Of course, my boy. But that does not matter now. Here, let me introduce you. You know my daughter, Angela, and this is my son Daniel. And Michael, how wonderful to see you again. My daughter has not been able to stop talking about you since you proposed. I can see this marriage will bring much joy in both our families. Now, Mr. McCartney, you mentioned something about a tour around the manor before dinner, did you not? Perhaps it would do well to leave the young couple alone for a while and then your son can change before we move on to the dining room for dinner?” Mr. Fishwick senior spoke fast and with much excitement in his voice, leaving little room for anyone to join the conversation. Still, it was not annoying. If anything, the man’s obvious excitement brought a smile to Paul’s face, and he could even see a small one pull at his father’s lips, who seemed unable to disagree with anything the other man said.

He nodded and called for one of the maids to take the guests’ trunks up to their rooms and asked her to call on them as soon as dinner was ready to be served, before he escorted two of the Fishwicks up the stairs for the tour, leaving to young lady behind with her fiancé, as had been suggested by her father. To Paul’s surprise, however, Miss Fishwick did not turn all her attention onto his brother as he had expected her to do, but instead turned to him and extended her hand for him to kiss. Paul took it and gently pressed his lips to her fingers.

“It is nice to see you again, Mr. McCartney. It has been a while, has it not?” she said, her voice sweet and playful. If Paul had not known any better, he would have said she sounded flirtatious, especially with the way she kept looking at him, her soft brown eyes half-lidded. Her brown curls framed her face beautifully, and Paul could easily understand why his brother had taken an interest in her; not only was she accomplished and from a good family, she was pretty as well.

“It most certainly has been, but you do not look a day older. I can see why my brother is so fond of you. My apologies for my own appearance though, Miss. As I told your father, I had quite forgotten the time.”

“Oh that does not matter. You look very handsome even when you are not all dressed up like you normally are,” Miss Fishwick replied with a charming smile and Paul replied with one of his own as he thanked her for her kind, but untrue words.

“You flatter me too much, Miss Fishwick. Now, if you two would excuse me, I must go get changed or I will be late again, and a lady such as you should never have to wait for a man twice. I will see you both at dinner,” Paul said and with one last polite nod, he turned around and started heading up the stairs to his own rooms, where he was able to quickly wash himself, get changed into one of his more formal suits and do his hair, before he was called down by one of the servants. He followed him down and was just in time to see everyone move into the dining room, before he was suddenly stopped by his brother.

“Thank you, Peterson,” he told the servant, who immediately walked off with a small nod, leaving the two brothers alone at the top of the stairs.

“Is there something wrong, brother dear?” Paul asked, confused as to why his brother wanted to talk to him alone. Michael, however, seemed unimpressed by his question.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that there is, and I think you know very well what I am talking about, Paul.”

“I am afraid, I-“ Paul started in return, but Michael quickly cut him off.

“I know you don’t like this engagement of mine, and I understand why, but that does not give you the right to start flirting with my fiancée and endanger our wedding,” he told him, and Paul could only stare at him in return, before he started laughing.

“Flirting? Me? With Miss Fishwick? I think you are becoming rather paranoid, my dear brother. I assure you, I am not interested in your fiancée and neither am I interested in endangering your wedding.”

“Don’t lie to me, Paul. I know how you are when you flirt with women and this was a classic example.”

“I was not flirting with her, Michael. I was merely being polite. Women like being complimented on their looks – god knows how much effort they put into it – and I was trying to make her feel welcome and at home, as you do when you are trying to be a good host. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d rather not be late a second time today.”

“Either way, I would very much appreciate it if you could tone it down with the pleasantries. She seems taken by you and I would rather not lose her to my very own brother.”

“How often must I tell you I am not interested in her, Michael! Even if she had taken a fancy with me, which she hasn’t, I would not have her.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. After all, she misses one crucial body part to be of any interest to you, doesn’t she? Or maybe, this is your way of convincing father you are not such a lost cause as he might think.”

“If that remark was supposed to insult me, you failed. Unlike father and you, I do not mind who I am attracted to. And besides, it is more beneficial for me to keep this engagement intact than to break it up to prove a point to father, I assure you.”

“Oh really, and how is my engagement beneficial to you, if I may ask?”

“Well, your happiness for one.”

“My happiness?!”

“Yes! Did it never cross your mind that I might care about you? That I actually love you? I would never endanger your happiness in favour of attempting to appease father by wooing a woman who I do not intent to marry. Miss Fishwick is a fine woman, but of no interest for me. You, however, are,” Paul said firmly and Michael froze at his words, clearly not having expected that. Paul, having had quite enough of this conversation, pushed past his brother and made his way down the stairs and to the dining room, intending to be on time for once. He had just been about to open the door to the corridor onto which the dining room was situated, when his brother called out for him, making him to turn his head, albeit rather reluctantly.

“I- I am sorry, Paul,” Michael called at him, his voice wavering, and Paul sighed as he waved the apology away.

“Forget about it, Mike. And if it will make you feel better about the whole thing, I will lay off the compliments for a while. Now, will you come down here and have dinner with us before it gets cold?” He asked and Mike nodded, before following Paul down the stairs to catch up with him. He muttered a soft thank you, before the two men headed to the dining room, managing it just in time to see the first course being served.

True to his word, Paul kept his distance from Miss Fishwick, taking instead a seat beside her brother and engaging mostly in small-talk with him as they enjoyed their dinner, leaving the seat beside her available for his brother, which in turn pleased Miss Fishwick greatly. They kept to themselves throughout, speaking with each other in hushed voices and occasionally giggling at something the other said as Miss Fishwick kept on touching his arm, shoulder and hands, keeping the touches teasing and barely there, playing her fiancée with expertise as his world narrowed down to her alone. Paul watched them in amusement, and could not help but wonder if perhaps one day he would find someone of his own to do that with, someone who would mean so much to him that he would lose himself completely, as he had seen happening to his brother more than once.

He had always considered himself unfit for such things; girls had rarely captured his attention when he had been young and even with boys it had been clear he could never have that, most of his interests never reaching further than a curiosity or a sexual interest. But seeing his brother like this, it made him wish things could be different.

After dinner, the group moved from the dining room to the drawing room, where they were offered drinks and would entertain themselves with a card game and some light reading before they would retire for the evening. Miss Fishwick excused herself for a moment to freshen up while the men played a game of cards and discussed some of the recent news. They were well into their second game when Miss Fishwick returned and, being the perfect gentleman, Michael immediately offered up his seat for her, proposing she’d take over his hand if she was eager to play. Before she could accept, however, Paul stepped in and offered up his own seat, saying it would be most interesting to see the two love birds play each other.

“Oh, no. Please, don’t give up your seat on my account. I can wait till the next game. You men finish this one,” Miss Fishwick objected, but Paul would not have any of it and insisted she’d take his seat anyway, saying he’d much rather play some piano for them all. After all, one cannot have fun without some light music playing in the background. Once Miss Fishwick finally gave in, after being reassured he really did not want to play anymore, Paul took a seat behind the grand piano in the corner of the room and started to play, occasionally singing along when he could remember the lyrics to the music until his father told him to allow Miss Fishwick a chance to play. He agreed to sing a duet with her first, before he beckoned his brother over to do the same, and got up to allow the young lady to take a seat behind the piano. Her brother offered Paul a seat to join another game, but Paul refused his offer, instead taking a book of a shelf and laying down on one of the sofas to read by a candle, while listening to Miss Fishwick playing at the piano. The book was rather boring, all the good ones being in the library, but he did not mind too terribly and made do with what he had, thinking it would be rude to leave them in favour of a good book.

Once Miss Fishwick had finished playing and the last game of cards had been played, Paul put his book away and glanced at the clock to note that it was soon approaching ten, much to his relief. He had had quite enough of the company he was in.

“How about we play another game? A final one before we call it a night. Angela, my dear, what do you think of a game of Taboo? You were always so good at that. She has the vocabulary of thesaurus, Mr. McCartney,” Mr. Fishwick said to Michael. Miss Fishwick herself smiled at the praise and took a seat next to Paul, who lifted his feet off the sofa to give her more room, and sighed as she feigned reluctance.

“If we must. Mr. McCartney, if I remember well you are not so bad at the game yourself,“ she said as she glanced at Paul, who laughed in return, shaking his head, as he got up from the couch.

“I am afraid you are mistaken, Miss Fishwick. You beat me last time.”

“I did, didn’t I? Well, what do you say? Play again and see who can win this time?”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but I must decline. My brother, however, is rather good at the game as well. I am sure he can challenge you. Now, if you would excuse me, I think I will retire for the evening.”

“Retire? Already?” Mr. McCartney butted in from across the room.

“Yes, father. I am rather tired.”

“Oh well, I suppose we will see you at breakfast again then, won’t we?” Mr. McCartney asked and Paul nodded “yes” in response, before wishing all a goodnight and with that he walked out of the room and made his way up the stairs to his room, where he lit a couple of candles before sitting down behind his desk and retrieving a blank sheet of paper and a pencil to draw while he waited. 

Not long after, he could hear other people retire for the evening and about half an hour later, there was a tentative knock on his door. Smiling to himself, Paul put his drawing he had made of John away and softly pushed his chair back before tiptoeing over to the door and slowly pulling it open, careful not to make a noise and accidentally alert someone.

“Mr. Ewan? Is that you?” he whispered.

“Yes, sir. It is me. Let me in.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“No, sir. I came via the back stairs,” Mr. Ewan muttered and before he had even finished his sentence, Paul pulled his door the rest of the way open and dragged the young man into his room. He quickly shut the door behind him and pushed the younger man up against it before attacking his mouth with his own, kissing him firmly, desperately on the lips, his teeth nibbling at them as his hands found the boys waist. He held him there tightly and he pushed is body flush against his, causing the other man to groan into his mouth.

“You have to keep quiet, Stan. Can you do that for me?” Paul asked, briefly pulling away to look the boy directly in the eye, taking in the sight of him as the warm light that came from the candles lit up his face. The boy swallowed thickly before he nodded, saying he understood.

“Good. Now, let’s see how long you can remain quiet,” Paul whispered in reply, making sure to lock his door before kissing him again. His fingers dug into the boy’s hips hard enough to leave marks as he pulled him closer and started guiding him to the bed, throwing him down on top of it before climbing into his lap and positioning himself right over the man’s crotch to grind down against him as he pulled him up for another hungry kiss, causing Mr. Ewan to quietly moan again despite his earlier promise. As long as he wasn’t too loud, though, Paul hardly minded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! Mainly because I really need to update here more often so I can post the new chapters all at the same time.


	9. Chapter 9

He had to bite down his bottom lip to keep quiet, causing him to accidentally break the skin and draw blood which left a coppery taste in his mouth, the pleasure he felt being almost too much, making it difficult for Paul to control himself. Keening, he thrusted his hips up into that wondrous wet cave that surrounded his straining erection, and came long and hard, his fingers tugging helplessly at the soft locks of hair beneath the covers. His eyes were shut tight and his cheeks flushed red from the exercise as he let his orgasm take over, consume him whole as every muscle in his body contracted at the intense moment of pure and unmasked pleasure, his toes curling into the sheets and his thighs tightening around the head that was bobbing up and down between them, suckling on his cock and swallowing it all down with an insatiable hunger.

Once Paul had finished, the other man pulled off with a plop and started kissing his way up Paul’s body, occasionally licking at his sweat-slick skin as his head slowly appeared from beneath the covers, looking as debauched as Paul imagined he himself must look: flushed, sweaty, lips sore and abused, and his hair sticking out in all directions. He groaned as the man’s lips found his neck and started sucking and nibbling lightly at the skin, leaving behind a light pink mark that they both knew would be gone the next morning.

“Stan…” Paul moaned, his voice too croaky and weak to say any more.

“Was that good for you, Paul?” the young man asked, briefly pulling his lips away from his neck to look him in the eye, his soft blue eyes sparkling in the dim light of the candles. Paul smirked at the question, thinking him too insecure for his own good, and in reply to his ridiculous question, he cupped the boy’s cheek in his hand and gently pulled him down for a kiss, moaning as he tasted himself on his tongue. When they pulled away, Paul noticed there was a smear of blood on his bottom lip and leaned up to lick it off, causing the other man to shudder, his nails digging into the skin of Paul’s chest like a cat’s – it was not difficult to imagine him purring.

“It was wonderful,” Paul said when he had finally found the strength to speak again, watching as a bright smile appeared on his face that reached all the way up to his eyes.

“It was for me, too.”

They kissed once more, their lips moving leisurely as both came back down from their highs and melted into the warm comfort of Paul’s oversized bed, legs tangled and hands roaming, touching every bit of skin they could easily reach. When the kiss ended, Stanley had curled up around the other man. He let his head rest on his chest as he held him close with both arms, refusing to let him go and sighing as he felt Paul’s fingers tangle themselves into his hair, his eyes falling close.

“I missed this,” he muttered softly, burying his face into Paul’s chest and kissing him right where his heart was. Paul smiled down at him at the confession and let out a deep sigh of his own, being only able to agree. “I’m glad you picked me.”

“Picked you?” Paul repeated, frowning at the odd phrasing. Stanley, on the other hand, did not seem to think what he was saying as anything particularly strange and nodded in reply. “I didn’t pick you. I liked you.”

“No, you did. You could have picked anyone at all, and you picked me. Call it what you like, but you did ‘pick’ me, and I am glad that you did. _That_ is the point.”

“I suppose you could say it like that,” Paul said with a chuckle, tightening his grip on the other man to hold him closer as he kissed the top of his head, “but I didn’t _have_ to pick someone. I ‘picked’ you – as you insist on calling it – because I like you.”

“Good, because I like you, too,” Stanley replied resolutely and Paul had to kiss the top of his head again, having missed these nonsensical conversations they would have from time to time, and continued to hold him close as he laid back in bed and closed his eyes, feeling how the sleep was starting to catch up with him, making him feel drowsy.

“I should probably go soon.”

“Please, stay a little longer,” Paul whispered back, but Stanley shook his head.

“I shouldn’t,” he said and untangled himself from his lover’s limbs as he sat up in bed, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to straighten it. Paul creaked his eyes open and reached out for him, running  his fingers seductively up and down his arm, coaxing him to come back to him, missing his warm touch.

“Please,” he repeated, almost voiceless. Stanley glanced down at him for a moment, before he let out a deep sigh and gave in reluctantly. Paul smiled as he laid back down, on his stomach this time, his chin resting on Paul’s chest so he could look at him.

“Well, if I am going to stay, we might as well talk a little. How did it go with your brother’s fiancée? It mustn’t have been too horrible, considering your head is still very much on your two shoulders,” Stanley asked with a wink, and Paul shook his head in disapproval, before reaching down to play with the man’s hair, stroking it back and threading his fingers through it, marvelling at how silky it felt against his skin.

“It went better than I had thought it would. Miss Fishwick was as pleasant as I had remembered her to be, her brother was a bit of a bore, though nothing I couldn’t handle, and the evening went by rather smoothly.”

“Well, that is good news.”

“Yes… Although, I have to say that I was rather saved by Mr. Fishwick himself. Seems like the man shares my love for riding, so he did not mind my showing up in my riding clothes. If it was not for the sudden fondness he expressed towards me, I am certain I would not have been so lucky,” Paul admitted with a sigh, smiling as Stanley leaned up into his touch, rubbing his head against the palm of his hand much like a cat; even after all this time, the boy was still surprisingly playful and tender in comparison to his rough exterior.

“Do you think your father is angry with you for it?” he asked, concern shining through in his voice. Paul thought for a moment, before shaking his head.

“No, I don’t think so. Disappointed, definitely, but not angry. Besides, he can hardly punish me for making Mr. Fishwick like me, even if it was by accident. I will be fine,” he said, cupping the other man’s cheek in his hand and stroking the skin with his thumb, enjoying the closeness between them and feeling happy he had decided not to leave him just yet; at least for a short while longer, he would not be alone. Stanley nodded in response at his words, but did not speak, and instead let his eyes roam over his lover’s face, taking in every little detail, until they came to rest upon the bruise just under his eye, high on his cheekbone.

“How is the bruise? It does not still hurt, does it?” he asked, and Paul shrugged.

“Only when I press down on it. It looks worse than it is, I promise. I have had to deal with worse ones,” he said, but Stanley looked unconvinced. Yet, he did not press the issue, and instead, he merely kept looking at him, studying his face and looking him deep in the eye as he continued to lie there in silence, looking deep in thought with a light frown on his forehead. He looked so handsome as he lay there, that Paul found himself wondering why he could not bring himself to love him – truly love him – like his brother loved Miss Fishwick, or his father had loved his mother, wishing he could have that too.

He let out a moan of surprise, when, without any prior warning, Stanley leaned up and pressed his lips to his again for a swift and simple kiss, giving him barely any chance to respond to it. When he pulled away again, he laid his head back down on Paul’s chest and tightened his grip on him, drawing him in closer to him as he muttered they ought to find some sleep. Paul nodded in response and wrapped his own arms more firmly around the other’s body.

“I suppose that might be a good idea,” he said with a yawn, closing his eyes. “You wouldn’t mind blowing out the candles when you leave, would you?”

“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Stanley replied and Paul felt himself smiling at his answer, before he was quickly consumed by sleep and drifted off into a peaceful slumber, his hold on his lover slacking as the muscles in his body relaxed. Stanley continued to lay with him for a while longer, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the soft and gentle rise of his chest as he breathed, and watching the light of the candles flicker until he was certain Paul was far gone and would not awake. He slowly untangled himself from him and got out of bed to change back into his clothes and blow out the candles, making sure to make as little noise as possible as not awake the other man. He glanced back at Paul’s sleeping form once, before he silently crept out of his room, down the corridor and to the servants’ stairs that would lead him downstairs so he could sneak out of the manor unnoticed.

***

The doorbell rung earlier than John had expected it to that Wednesday evening, not having forgotten Paul’s notice about him being perhaps slightly late that evening due to the visitors that were staying with them. Ever since the carriage with the strangers had been seen driving past the city and up to the McCartney driveway, the people of Liverpool had seemed to be unable to speak of anything else, causing for numerous theories and speculations to rise up, the one wilder than the next, on who these visitors might be, why they were here, and for how long they would stay. The most believable story that had caught John’s ear so far, he had heard in one of the gentlemen clubs when he had gone there for a drink with Stuart and Richard a day earlier, and consisted of the idea that one of the two sons had gotten engaged, meaning it had to be his fiancée who had come to visit to see her future husband and have their marriage approved. The idea had caused some slight anxiety among the young women once it had reached their ears as well, but soon they had decided the idea was ridiculous in itself, as neither of them had heard of any potential wives – or pretended to, at least - and had insisted it was merely a friend of Mr. McCartney senior who lived overseas and would thus stay for a couple of weeks, if perhaps not longer.

John on the other hand thought the idea to be a highly convincing one, and found himself hoping it was the youngest of the two who was getting married and not Paul, the idea of that being a possibility causing his stomach to feel weird and his throat to tighten, though he could not think of a reason why. Richard, of course, had been quick to suggest that he had a more personal reason as to why he disliked the thought of the eldest McCartney son getting married, but John had dismissed that as soon as the words had left his friend’s mouth and had told him to stop suggesting such preposterous ideas. He was not interested; the man could go to hell for all he cared.

Still, he jumped in his seat at the sound of the doorbell ringing, announcing Mr. McCartney’s arrival as it had done every Wednesday and Friday evening for the last couple of weeks, and felt a nervous tingle pool low in his stomach. He sat up in his seat, but did not rise to stand, deciding Dot could answer the door for him as she did with all their clients, and waited for Paul to be lead through into the studio. In the corner at the back of the room, the canvas he and Stuart had prepared together that afternoon for the McCartney portrait was already placed on the easel, and was surrounded by everything that John would need for that evening’s session, such as his sketching pencils, but also his oil paint, brushes, and palette in the hope that they could start on the portrait itself that evening after their tea break. The beginnings of the sketch were already visible on the canvas. John had started on it that afternoon, using his sketches as guidelines, in the hope to hurry things along that evening, doubting he would be able to finish the portrait in time if he continued working at the pace he was doing now.

It took a minute or two before the front door was finally opened and John could hear voices coming from the hallway, one of which he recognised as Paul’s as he had expected. Much to his surprise, however, the other voice wasn’t Dot’s. In fact, it was not even female, but instead a low and deprecating voice that could not belong to anyone but Stuart.  He considered stepping in between the two, knowing neither liked the other for reasons they refused to share with him, but before he had been able to get to his feet, the door to the studio swung open, and Paul was shown inside, albeit not very warmly.

“Mr. McCartney is here for you, John,” Stuart said through gritted teeth, shooting a spiteful sideways glance at the young man, before disappearing again and pulling the door close behind him with a loud thud that caused Paul to jump in surprise where he stood. Still, he seemed rather unimpressed by Stuart’s attitude towards him, and smiled at John as a greeting as he took off his hat and coat, the other man already having vanished from his mind. The easy way in which he seemed to be able to detach himself from such things impressed John, having had difficulty with it himself since he had been a child.

“Good evening, Mr. Lennon,” he said, his voice calm and unaffected as if he had never even spoken with Stuart. John nodded in reply to acknowledge him and beckoned him to have a seat in their usual spot, to which Paul easily complied, laying down his coat and hat over the armrest of one of the sofas, before taking a seat.

“I er… I am sorry about Mr. Sutcliffe. I thought Dot would get the door for you,” John said as he sat down on his stool opposite him, but Paul was quick to tell him he did not mind, being used to people voicing their dislike to him like that. John felt a pang of empathy for the other man, the fact that he said it with such nonchalance making him feel sorry for him, but pushed the feeling away, knowing such issues were none of his concern. Instead, he offered him a smile. “Would you like something to drink, or shall we get straight to it?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Lennon. I am fine. Let us get on with it, shall we?” Paul said in reply and John nodded once again as he got up and knelt down by Paul’s feet to help him sit in the right position while he explained what they would be doing that day, as had become habitual for them; Paul did not so much as twitch as John laid a hand on his knee to guide him and moved with him easily. John still found it hard to breathe when he was this close to the other man, feeling how the man’s body burned against his hands and being hyper-aware of how his eyes followed his every move, occasionally locking directly onto his own as he watched him closely.

It was only when John sat knelt by the man’s face and was gently angling up his chin with his thumb and pointer finger, that John noticed the little pink mark low on the man’s neck, only just not hidden by his collar. The sight made him frown.

“Is something wrong?” Paul asked, breaking John’s concentration. He blushed as he noticed he had frozen up as he had stared at the mark, and quickly shook his head.

“N-no. Sorry, sir.”

“Is it still there? Can you still see it?”

“Sir?”

“The mark? You can still see it?” Paul repeated, his eyes wide with what seemed like concern, which only added to John’s confusement.

“N-No. Well, I can, but it isn’t visible exactly. The skin is slightly pinker and it looks a little rougher just above the collar of your shirt, but nothing people would usually notice.”

“Except you, it appears,” Paul said, and John shuddered involuntarily at the feeling of his warm breath on his face, not having noticed just how close they were in this position. He nodded with an apologetic smile, as he got back up to his feet, Paul’s eyes following him still in the hope for an explanation.

“It is my job to notice. A good artist has a keen eye for detail, especially when it comes to his subject matter, don’t you agree?”

“And you think yourself a good artist then, Mr. Lennon?”

“Naturally. You would not have let me do your portrait if you thought otherwise, would you?” John replied with a wink and felt his lips pull up into a smug smile as he got Paul to laugh at that, after which he helped him into the right position and returned back to his own sit, where he picked up one of his pencils.

“Don’t worry, Paul. No one will have noticed that mark,” John assured him once more and Paul nodded in reply as he let out a deep sigh of relief. “Is she your fiancée then? Your visitor, I mean.”

Paul turned his head to him in surprise, before he realised he was not allowed to move and turned back to re-assume the correct position. “Fiancée? No, it is my brother’s fiancée who is visiting us for the time being. Why?”

“Well, the mark, sir. I- I thought… My apologies, sir, I should not have asked,” John said as he started to work, focusing on the white canvas before him rather than his model, feeling his cheeks heat up as if he had been caught doing something indecent. Still, he could not pretend not to notice how his heart had skipped a beat at the news that it was indeed Paul’s brother who had gotten engaged and not the man himself as he had hoped. Though, as before, he could not think of a reason why that would cause him such relief, nor why the realisation that the man appeared to have a lover of some sorts – he could recognise a love-bite anywhere, and that mark was most definitely a love-bite – made him feel disappointed, angry. Surely, he was not _jealous_. The idea alone almost caused him to burst out laughing! No, it had to be something else.

John tried to work quickly, knowing it would not do to overthink his sketch at this point: his fingers knew the curves, the forms, and the shapes that were supposed to appear on the canvas, so he had to trust on that now, or else the sketch could come out forced and calculated rather than natural, which was the last thing he wanted. He had to trust himself. So, as to not become too fixated on what his fingers were doing, he distracted himself by making pleasant conversation with Paul, and was glad to note Paul was all too happy to actively participate. At first, they spoke about Michael McCartney’s fiancée, but although Paul answered his questions, he soon realised he was reluctant to talk about it in any depth, his answers remaining brief and formal, so John moved the subject to Richard instead, asking Paul what he thought of him, before their conversation lead into one about travelling and finally their shared love for art and music. John was excited to hear about Paul’s opinion on all his favourite books, paintings and music pieces, and to his delight, Paul seemed just as happy to hear about his, their different opinions causing for some light, but interesting discussions.

Soon, about a good fifteen minutes earlier than when they would usually have had their tea break, John had the sketch finished and he was ready to start on the actual painting itself. Looking back at his work, he could not help but feel pleased, thinking it was his best work yet so far. He could only hope Paul would share his opinion and that it would still be as good once it was completely finished. With a deep sigh, he put his things aside and stretched himself out as he told Paul they could take an early break, having finished the sketch. Paul nodded in reply and got up to walk around the room for a bit and stretch his legs, his hands held behind his back. He halted in front of the large window that looked out into the garden. The sun had already started to set, and it was slowly becoming dark outside, the garden being situated between other houses which blocked the sunlight, making it appear darker than it actually was, though there was still enough natural light flooding into the room for John to see his work properly with the aid of some candles. He doubted, though, that they would still have enough that coming Friday.

“Oh, Paul?” he started, catching the other man’s attention. Paul only hummed in reply to let him know he was listening, keeping his back turned on him. “I was wondering if we could perhaps move our meeting to the afternoon? It er… is important I get enough natural light now we will start with the actual painting, you see?”

“Oh yes, of course. How does two ‘o clock sound? I am sure I can reschedule some of my classes to some other time or day.”

“Classes?” John asked, confused, as he wiped his dirty hands off on a clean piece of cloth that lay on the small table beside him. Paul glanced over at him from across his shoulder, and he nodded.

“The only thing I do that my father actually agrees with, I am afraid,” he said with a sad chuckle. He briefly paused, staring thoughtfully out of the window and up into the sky, before he continued. “Apart from music and art, reading and learning about the world in general have always fascinated me. It is interesting to study the world and learn about it, and my father always thought it was important that his eldest son would be smart and knowledgeable, so he always encouraged me. I could have stopped years ago now, seeing as I do not want to go university to become a doctor or a lawyer, but I enjoy it. Besides, there’s not much else for a man like me to do anyway. Not the things I would like to do, at least.”

“What would you like to do?”

Paul considered the question for a while, before answering. “It is not important.”

“But-“

“It is not important,” he repeated, his voice firm and cold, and John swallowed the rest of his words and suppress his curiosity. He stared at him for a moment, considering him as Paul continued to stare out of the window, his body tense and shoulders high, looking on guard. The tension in the room was soon broken, however, by a soft knock on the door, followed by Dot’s voice, announcing she had their tea for them. Paul barely reacted to her, merely turning around and moving to sit down on of the sofas as he avoided John’s eye at all cost. John sighed and went over to the kitchen door to take the tray with tea and biscuits from his maid, who he had forbidden to come into the studio while they were busy, not liking the way she would look at Paul. He took said tray from her with a muttered thank you and had her close the door behind herself, as he put the tray down on the coffee table between the two couches and sat down opposite Paul, where he began to pour them both a cup of tea.

In an attempt to lessen the tension that had started to form between them, John tried to talk about Paul’s latest trip to Paris instead, knowing how much the man enjoyed those from what he had told him just a couple of minutes before. Sure enough, Paul was eager to answer his questions and tell him about it, creating detailed pictures in John’s mind of the city he had only seen before in paintings and of the handsome and most fashionable men and women who resided there, some of whom were close family friends. He could almost taste the food as Paul described it and listened with fascination as Paul described the art galleries there, as well as his own rooms that his father rented for them to stay at whenever they were there. Soon, the tension between them had vanished completely, and their conversation continued long after they had gotten started on the picture again, and before they knew it, the evening had passed.

Just like every other night when their meeting had come to an end, John escorted Paul to the door and helped him into his coat before he wish him a pleasant evening and saw him out. Neither Stuart nor Dot was anywhere near to disturb them, thus offering the two young men some privacy as they went over their next meeting, setting a fixed time for the meetings that were yet to come. John assured him the portrait should be finished on time as long as they continued to see each other as often as they did, but Paul told him not to worry about the deadline too much, having much rather a more beautiful portrait a little later than a messy one a couple days earlier, though John felt that wasn’t really what Paul had wanted to say. Still, he made no comment on it and merely nodded in acknowledgement, before he opened the door for the other man and allowed him to step out into the cold, dark evening. The younger man pulled his coat a little tighter around himself as the icy wind blew around his head, making his cheeks look even chubbier than usual and his eyes even bigger as he looked directly up at him.

“I will see you this Friday afternoon then, Mr. Lennon. If you speak with your friend Mr. Starkey, tell him I said “hi” and that I was sorry for having left the both of you so soon last Monday. It was rather rude of me, I think,” Paul said and John nodded in reply.

“Of course, sir,” he said, and Paul nodded back at him, his eyes lowering for a moment, before he glanced up at him again, a light frown on his face, as if he was considering whether he should say what he wanted to say or not. In the end, it seemed that he had decided to say it anyway, and beckoned John to lean in closer.

“Although I don’t think I would have to tell you this, I er… would very much appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone about the mark on my neck – for rather obvious reasons,” he said in a hushed voice with a rather forced smile. John swallowed at the question, almost having forgotten about that, but found himself nodding.

“Of course, sir. It is none of my business, anyway,” he said, his voice tight, which made speaking almost painful. Still, he forced himself to smile back at the other man.

“Thank you, Mr. Lennon,” he said and seemed genuinely relieved and even thankful, much to John’s surprise. He nodded in return and watched in silence as Paul turned around and started walking towards the carriage that stood waiting for him alongside the road. But whereas normally, he would step inside and ride off without so much as a wave at the other man, this time, he turned around before he stepped inside, his eyes locking directly onto John’s, where they remained for a couple of seconds, before he offered John one last smiled and got into the carriage. The moment could not have lasted long, and neither had it been anything particularly special, but still, John felt that one shared look had meant something. Perhaps, he thought, he was more to Paul than just another employee. As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, however, he chuckled and shook his head at his own stupidity as he turned around and went back inside, thinking himself ridiculous for even considering the possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! And finally some sexy times ;) Not with John though... but that will come


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning: when I tagged this as Jim being an asshole, I meant it. He does love Paul, but he raises his sons with a firm hand as will become apparent in this chapter. I have decided not to explicitly tag it, as it will only be minor instances and nothing truly horrible and because raising children this way was more normal back then and even in the 1950s (still, don't hit your children. Seriously. Don't). I just wanted you to be warned just in case. 
> 
> Also, if you're worried, this kind of behaviour will not be condoned in this fic.

Paul sat looking out of the grand sash window as he threaded his fingers through Martha’s fur, her large fuzzy body covering his legs and part of his chest as she lay beside him on the window seat, lightly snoring as she slept. It was still early, the morning fog hanging low above the wet, glistening grass as the sun crawled up into the blue and golden sky, its rays of light coming through just between the trees. He could see people walking below, starting their day as per usual, scarves wrapped around their necks to shield them from the morning chill, and Paul could not help but stare down at them, watch them as they spoke with each other and got to work, the people being far more interesting than the Latin book that lay in his lap, urging him to study with its many words and grammar rules. He could see Miss Fishwick and her brother walk past the large fountain in the middle of the garden away from the manor for their usual morning walk. They had asked him to join them but he had needed to refuse in favour of his studies, which he had neglected for a couple of weeks now, much to his father’s and teacher’s disappointment. Paul, however, found it difficult to care about Latin or any of his subjects at the moment, when his mind was occupied with other things, such as, rather surprisingly, his portraitist, but also the issue of finding himself a wife, which his brother’s engagement had brought to his attention once again. Still, his teacher would be there in just a couple of hours and Paul had yet to do most of the assignments and readings he had been told to do three days prior.

Sighing, he teared his eyes away from the window and looked down at his dog, wishing not for the first time he could live a life such as hers: without any responsibilities or worries, where everything was arranged for you, and all day you could simply lay in a window seat, sleeping or just dozing, while someone would scratch you behind your ear and call you a good girl. It was an easy life, peaceful, and Paul felt envy nagging at him. But such thoughts were ridiculous, if not useless, for such wishes would never come true, and would in general not be desirable if one thought about it for longer than five seconds, so he pushed them away and picked up his Latin book instead, deciding the least he could do was finish one assignment like his teacher had asked him to and do it well. Martha opened her eyes and turned her head to look up at her owner as Paul’s hand ceased its petting to hold the book, demanding him to continue, being quite displeased with the change. Paul rolled his eyes, but indulged her anyway, allowing the book the rest against the window so he could continue petting her, even though he knew deep down how ridiculous it was with how much ease she could manipulate him into doing whatever she wanted. He still smiled as she let out a pleased whine in return and laid her head back down in his lap to continue her lazy morning in the best possible way: asleep.

As planned, his teacher came into the library about two hours later, announcing his presence with three successive knocks on the door, ready to spend the morning and afternoon with his student, and although he was displeased with the lack of work Paul had managed to do in the last few days, he was at least relieved he had done some of the readings, allowing them to go through those subjects with ease, so they could focus on the ones Paul had neglected to do as not to fall behind on their schedule. Paul tried to focus and pay attention to what was being said and explained to him as he sat at the large wooden table in the middle of the room, surrounded by books, essays, notebooks, writing paper, and ink bottles, writing down every word that was of import and asking questions when needed. Although he managed to focus on his work at first, the longer they spent on it, the more difficult it became for him to keep his thoughts on the subject and not let them drift off to far more pleasant, yet rather troubling, ideas and images. He was grateful, though, that his teacher seemed to notice his absentmindedness, and allowed him an early lunch, after which he suggested they would go outside for his biology lessons on flora and fauna to allow him some fresh air. He even let him bring his dog along.

Paul liked being outside, the fresh air both clearing his mind from all excessive thought on matters that should not concern him, and ordering those that had become muddled, clarifying his thoughts in a way that was clear and effective. They went for a walk around the different gardens, naming every plant, insect, and animal they passed on the way and classifying them the best they could, while also considering their uses and even their symbolic meanings, thus tying it in with his art appreciation classes which Paul had more or less finished. The only reason why he continued to want to learn about it far past the required level was his own passion and interest in it, and his teacher was more than happy to indulge him whenever he could, trying his best to tie it in with his other subjects, so it would not take away from those. It felt good to be outside for a while and Paul was grateful for his teacher’s decision to do this, his concentration being much stronger now than when they had been inside. The mist had cleared and the sun was warm as it shone upon them, warming their skins as they listened to the chirping birds that fluttered around in and between the trees, making the chill of the autumn wind a little more bearable.

They walked for almost two hours, studying plants, flowers, insects, and tiny animals, even coming across a couple of squirrels and hedgehogs that did not scurry away when Paul tried approaching them, but instead looked up at him curiously. Paul sat crouched before them for a while, watching them with wonder in his eyes as he took notes and softly spoke to them in a gentle and quiet voice, before they finally rushed away anyway, leaving Paul slightly disappointed behind. As the lesson proceeded, his teacher encouraged Paul to speak with him in French to practise, so they would not need to go back to the library once they were finished, allowing Paul a little less than an hour off before he would be expected in the parlour for his piano lessons.

When the lesson came to an end and the manor house came back into view, however, Paul could not help but feel saddened, having wished the lesson would not end for a long time yet, thinking it was the best lesson he had had in a while and not wanting it to end. Yet, at the same time, he was grateful to have been allowed an hour off, not feeling much for going back upstairs into the library to do his French lessons, so he knew very well he could not complain. They finished their lessons at the meadow, watching the horses graze and run together across the large field. Mary, Paul’s favourite, a gorgeous appaloosa mare, white with grey legs and spots, came walking over to them as she noticed them and allowed Paul to pet her for a short while, before running back to the other horses on the other end of the field, her grey manes flowing in the wind.

Paul stood there for a while, simply watching the horses, even after his teacher had said goodbye and gone back to the manor, as he hummed a song to himself and scratched Martha on the head with his fingers. The horses always had a calming effect on him, allowing him to stop thinking for a moment and just be by himself. Yet, he could not say he minded it when one of the stable boys came over to him and interrupted his moment of peace and quiet.

“Afternoon, Mr. McCartney,” the boy said, his voice cheery. Paul acknowledged him with a hum, keeping his eyes on the horses before him. Martha, intrigued by their visitor, stood up from where she had been lying at her owner’s feet and started sniffing at the stable boy’s legs, her tail wagging excitedly as he leaned down to pet her, praising her for being such a good girl and apologising to her for not having a treat for her. For a moment, she seemed actually upset with the news and turned around to sit back down beside her owner, which made Stanley chuckle.

“She is just like you when she doesn’t get what she wants, did you know that?” he asked as he got back onto his feet and moved to lean against the fence beside the other man, turning his head to study him, an amused little grin playing on his lips. Paul shot him a look, shaking his head.

“Don’t push it, Mr. Ewan,” he warned him, but when the other man only chuckled in response, he continued, “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“I thought you had lessons this afternoon?”

“I did. I finished them.”

“Well, so did I,” Stanley said with a wink, this time causing Paul to snicker in response, before he told him to get back to work.

“I am not paying you for nothing, you hear!” he told him and Stanley nodded in understanding, before he did what he had told him to, and hurried off towards the stables, but not before giving Paul’s bicep a quick squeeze, catching his attention and holding it even when he was already out of sight. Paul, being too stubborn to give into the other man’s teasing that easily, remained where he was, forcing himself to watch the horses as they stood grazing in the large field, but no matter how hard he tried to forget about the other man, he could still feel the firm press of his hand on his arm. In the end, he let out a curse under his breath, before motioning Martha to follow him and making his way towards the stables, figuring he still had some time before his piano lessons would start.

The first thing he noticed as he entered the stables was how empty it was, with only one other stable boy clearing out one of the stables, who nodded at him as saw him come in. Martha laid down at her usual spot by the entrance where they had laid out blankets for her to sleep on and Paul told her to be good before making his way further into the stables to the track room where they kept all the saddles, bridles, harnesses, riding caps, whips and much more, hoping to find other man there. He stopped in front of the door, noticing that it was left ajar. Taking this as an invitation, he had a quick look around to see if anyone was watching him, before pushing the door further open and sneaking inside, closing the door behind him completely.

As he had expected, Stanley was inside, standing by the saddles, pretending to be hard at work, although both he and Paul knew that wasn’t true. Grinning, Paul tiptoed over to the other man and slowly wrapped his arms around his middle, pulling him back against him as he leaned in to bury his face in the crook of the other man’s neck and kiss him there, pulling a broken whine from of his throat as he pressed his body fully up against him. Right away, though, the other man’s body melted into him, leaning into his touch as his head fell sideways to allow him more room to work with.

“P-Paul…” he muttered, his hands falling from the saddle he had been messing with and onto Paul’s, holding onto him as he stumbled backwards, his knees weakening at the attention he was receiving, while a cheeky grin pulled at his lips, letting Paul know he had not misread his intention. “I-I need to work.”

“No, you don’t,” Paul said, dragging his lips up until he found his ear. He pulled gently on his earlobe with his teeth, before closing his lips around it and giving a gentle little suck, causing another whine to escape from his throat. Paul let out a growl of his own as his hips gave an involuntary thrust in response, cursing as he felt some blood rush downwards where his front was pressed against the other’s backside. Annoyed, he pulled away from him and forced him to turn around, pressing him against the rack of saddles before he captured his mouth with his own, kissing him fiercely as he tangled a hand into his hair and gave a teasing little pull, that caused the boy to groan into his mouth and kiss back with just as much passion. By the time the kiss had ended, both were out of breath and panting, their cheeks flushed with arousal.

“I cannot stay,” Paul muttered as he stared down at Stanley’s lips, hungry for more, but knowing he would need to leave soon for his piano lessons. Still, the other man made it difficult for him to stick to that. He swallowed as Stanley nodded in response.

“I know. We can continue this some other time.”

“If you’d like.”

“Of course,” he replied and before Paul could say something in return, Stanley had already leaned in again and pressed his mouth back against his, interrupting him with another kiss that got Paul smiling against his lips. Both men instantly froze, however, when the door suddenly opened again, followed by the sound of Mr. McCartney’s loud voice calling out Stanley’s name.

“Mr. Ewan? Have you seen my son, anywhere? I cannot seem to find him…” he said, his voice dying off as his eyes landed on the couple at the other end of the room, pressed up against each other in what could only be defined as a loving, if not sensual, embrace. As soon as Paul had found the capability to move again, he hastily stepped away from the other man and straightened his clothes as he averted his eyes, looking down at the floor in embarrassment as he waited for his father to speak. To his surprise, though, it was Stanley who chose to speak first.

“Mr. McCartney, sir? I- I am awfully sorry. P-Paul and I-“ he started, but Mr. McCartney was quick to interrupt him, his hands bawling up into fists as his anger got the better of him.

“ _Paul and you?!_ ” he repeated, disgust in his voice, “Paul, Mr. Martin is waiting for you in the parlour. I’ll speak to you later, you understand?”

Paul looked up at his father at those words, eyes wide and heart beating rapidly in his chest, too fast to be healthy, feeling how his bones turned to ice at the pure anger that radiated from his father’s eyes, having only seem him this mad a few times before and already fearing what he had in mind for him. He glanced sideways at Stanley, not wanting to leave him alone with his father when he was like this, and swallowed as he saw the look of intense fear on the boy’s face, his usually tan skin having paled considerably, making him look so much younger than he actually was, and so much more breakable as he was reminded of his young age, being barely over eighteen.

“Paul!” his father snapped at him as he still had not given him his answer, and Paul shrunk into himself at the tone of voice, his throat constricting in fear for himself, but also for Stanley, being uncertain about what his father what would do to him. Still, he forced himself to look away from the other man and nodded at his father before shuffling out of the room, keeping his eyes lowered so he would not have to look at him again as he passed him and made his way out of the stables. Martha barked as she saw her owner reappear and whined as she noticed his unusual disposition, feeling that something was wrong. Paul knelt down before her and hugged her close to let her know he was doing okay, before made his way back to the manor, deciding that the best he could do was to do as his father had told him and hope for the best.

Making his way back to the manor house, Paul tried not to think too much about what had happened, knowing it would not do to worry now, considering he had no idea what his father might do to him or Stanley, except that it was most likely not going to be pleasant for either of them. Martha kept close to his side as he walked, whining occasionally and licking at Paul’s fingers when she could in an attempt to make him feel better, not liking it when he was like this. But instead of making him feel better, it only made Paul want to cry. Still, he kept it in and allowed her to lick at his trembling fingers as he bit down his bottom lip and walked on, snapping at every person who so much as dared to look at him, which only seemed to make them even more curious to know what had happened. He could see George sitting by one of the flowerbeds near the back of the manor, his hands covered in dirt, watching him with a frown on his forehead, clearly worrying about his friend. Paul, however, looked the other way, not wanting to speak with anyone at the moment. Especially George, knowing he had promised him to ask his father for a raise, which he still had not done, and of which he was now certain that it was not going to happen. Pattie was going to be disappointed.

The parlour was one of the smaller reception rooms in the house, consisting only of a small fireplace with a bookshelf on either side, two sofas, a coffee table, and a grand piano, though it looked out over the gardens, one of the walls being almost all glass to provide a most gorgeous view of the large fountain. Mr. Martin was indeed waiting by the piano, playing a piece himself to pass the time as he waited for his student. He was an older man, though a few years younger than his father, with thin, greying hair, a long elegant face, a sharp nose and deep-set eyes. He came from a good family and had made a fine career in the military before he had needed to retire due to a knee injury and had decided to become a music teacher instead, always having loved playing piano. It did not earn him much, but it was enough for him to get by, having received a generous amount of money for his retirement from the military and having had the luck to marry a woman with a small fortune of her own. Although he was quite a couple years older than Paul, both in years and experience, they had hit it off quickly, having the same sense of humour and a deep love for music that bonded them together in such a strong way that Mr. Martin was almost a second father figure in Paul’s life.

He turned around to look at Paul as he heard the door open, his fingers stopping their play, and smiled at him, but as soon he noticed the look of utter shock and fear on the younger man’s face, it vanished, his expression turning concerned and anxious in less than a second as he realised something was wrong.

“Paul?” he asked, moving to stand as he watched Paul step inside the room, noticing only now how much the boy was shaking when he closed the door behind him. Paul, however, shook his head and motioned him to sit back down as he forced himself to smile.

“I am fine. I promise,” he said and to his relief Mr. Martin sat back down with a nod, though he looked unconvinced.

“Did anything happen?” he asked. Paul shrugged in reply and slowly started to make his way over to the piano as he tried his hardest to control his breathing. Martha was still following him, leaving muddy footprints on the wooden flooring where she had stood and laid down at his feet as Paul took a seat beside the older man behind the piano.

“I- I’d rather not talk about. Let us simply focus on this instead. Some distraction will be of much more help to me than talking about it,” he said, nodding at the piano, and although Mr. Martin still did not look convinced, he nodded and did as Paul had asked, knowing better than to go against him, for which Paul was glad.

“If you so wish. Let me hear the piano piece you have been working on this week,” he said and got up to take a seat on a nearby chair, which one of the maids always put down there for each lesson. Paul nodded as he placed his fingers onto the keys and started playing, forcing himself to focus on the music piece rather than his father and slowly but surely, he felt his heartbeat return to normal. Doing some work always managed to help him calm down.

Although Paul had expected his father to come straight to him after he had finished with Mr. Ewan, it was more than an hour later that the head butler came into the parlour to tell him his father was expecting him in his study. He had been in the middle of a piano piece, which had been going rather well, considering the nerves, but as soon as he had heard the announcement, he lost track of what he had been doing, his nervous coming back to him almost twice as bad as they had been when he had first been caught. His fingers stilled on the keys and he stared ahead of him for a second, before he took a deep breath and told him he would be right there.

“Mr. McCartney told me to inform you, Mr. Martin, that you can return home now and that I was to escort you to your carriage, sir,” the head butler continued to Mr. Martin, who nodded in response with one last glance at his student, before he got up, gathered his things and reminded Paul of what pieced he had to prepare for next time. Paul nodded to let him know he had heard him, but did not turn his head to look at him, feeling as if he had been frozen to the piano like a statue, unable to move, speak or do anything else than just sit and stare. Mr. Martin squeezed his shoulder reassuringly as he walked past him before following the head butler out of the room and to the driveway where his carriage would be waiting for him. Paul remained behind the piano for a couple of minutes longer, before he finally had gathered enough courage to stand up and make his way to his father’s study, every step he took into that dreaded direction being heavier than the last. By the time he had reached the door of the study, he felt like he was about to throw up. Still, he refrained from running away, and knocked on the door twice, before stepping inside.

His father sat behind his desk as Paul was used to seeing him, smoking his pipe and reading the paper which he had spread out onto his desk, his almost ever present frown clearly visible on his forehead. He glanced up at his son as he heard the door close, but did not say a word to him as he simply turned back to his paper to finish the article. Paul, having expected something like this, took a seat in one of the chairs opposite his father and waited patiently, his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap as he tried to control his breathing and waited. Once his father finally put his newspaper aside and turned his eyes on him, Paul forced himself not to look away and look straight back at him. He didn’t even respond when his father scoffed in return.

“You’ve disappointed me, Paul,” he finally said after another couple of seconds of silence. Paul, however, chose not to respond. “I have told you many times before I did not want you to continue these… _affairs_ of yours, and yet you continue to disobey me, and with a stable boy of all people!”

“Father, I-“

“Silence! You do not speak unless I ask you something. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Father…”

“Continuously, you disobey me. You keep having these affairs and with _men_ , as well. I thought this was one of your strange phases that you keep going through, but still you keep doing this. I cannot imagine what your mother would say if she was still alive. I have only ever asked one thing of you, Paul, and is for you to be a good son and find yourself a proper English wife, produce an heir and take over the estate when I’m gone, like every other good son and every single one of your forefathers before you, and yet, you continue to do this to me, as if our family is not even important to you. As if you do not care about what happens to our family, to the estate, to me, or even to yourself. There are dozens of people under our care that depend on us, and yet, you continue to gamble your life away on these stupid, meaningless affairs. Michael is even being a better son than you are and he is barely here!” Jim McCartney spoke, his voice firm and strict, as he got up and started to circle the room, taking long, powerful strides as he looked down at his son, watching him with disgust reflected in his eyes. Paul swallowed thickly at the words, wanting to tell his father he was wrong about that, that he did care about those things, but he knew it was useless.

“You are a disgrace to the family, Paul! Do you not think about what might happen if one day you are caught? Or if one of your… your… _lovers_ , if you wish to call them that, decides to tell on you and sell you out? Do you have any idea what that might mean, not only to me, or to the family, but to you as well?”

“Father-“ Paul started, but was quickly cut off by the sound of a loud smack, followed by a stinging pain in his cheek, the spot where his father’s hand had hit him burning up from the impact. He bit his lip to keep quiet, knowing his father would not appreciate any sign of weakness.

“Do not interrupt me!”

“Sorry, Father,” Paul tried, but his apology was not appreciated, resulting into another hard slap in the face, this time on the other cheek.

“I do not need your petty excused, Paul. I’ve heard them too many times and every single time you have gone against my wishes again! You don’t ever seem to listen.”

“What did you do with Mr. Ewan?” Paul asked, not caring anymore about the consequences. Thankfully, his father did not hit him again.

“I fired him,” he told him instead, taking a seat onto his desk opposite Paul, who looked up at him with big eyes at the answer, not believing his ears.

“You fired him?!” he repeated and his father nodded. “You can’t fire him! It is not his fault! I started this! It was all my fault! Please, Father-“

Again he was interrupted by a smack in the face. “Are you disagreeing with me?”

“N-no, Father. But… I am only saying, it was not his fault. The fault was all mine. Please, do not fire him. It is not his fault,” he almost begged, but Mr. McCartney shrugged.

“He should have known better than to engage in a relationship with my son. This is as much his fault as it is yours, but do not worry, you will get your punishment as well,” he said with a sigh. He remained quiet for a moment before continuing. “You really did disappoint me, Paul. I thought we had moved passed this, and yet… You keep on doing this. You keep disobeying me and endangering both yourself and the family at large. Sometimes I really did wish you were more like your brother. He at least has found himself a good wife, and has not brought any shame onto our family, unlike you.”

“I have not brought you shame, Father,” Paul said through gritted teeth, his hands holding tightly onto the chair to control himself, feeling how anger began to rush through his body, making his head feel fuzzy. To his surprise, however, his father agreed.

“No… not yet, at least. But you keep cutting it close, Paul. One of these days… One misstep and you are ruined, you hear me, Paul? I’m doing this for you, believe it or not. I _care_ about you. I do. Which is exactly why I am doing this. Stand up.”

He did not need to ask twice before Paul got onto his feet, holding onto his chair to steady himself, only realising now how weak his knees were. He gasped and whimpered as his father’s hand collided with his cheek again, harder this time than the ones before. Another followed, causing Paul to stumble backwards from the force of it, nearly falling back into his seat, if it wasn’t for his father’s hand that grabbed his wrist, before he could and steadied him. The hold he had on him, however, was much too tight, his blunt nails digging into Paul’s skin, making him whine, before his father had even hit him again.

“Now,” he said after the last hit, releasing Paul to allow him to sit back down again and recollect himself, as he moved to sit down behind his desk again, “go upstairs to your room. I will have dinner brought up to you. I don’t wish to see your face for a while, you understand. Not, at least, until I have decided what to do with you. Anna will help you to your room.” Paul nodded as he raised a trembling hand to his face to feel how bad the damage was - at least he was not bleeding terribly - and bit down his tongue to keep himself from crying. He did not even hear it when the door to the study opened and a young girl entered. He allowed her to help him up onto his feet and let himself be guided out into the hallway by her, feeling too numb to do anything by himself in that moment. He had just been about to step out of the room, when his father called after him.

“I am sorry, Paul. But I am doing this for you. Stay out of Mr. Ewan’s way. I don’t ever want to see you two near each other again, you hear me?” he asked and Paul nodded weakly, before stepping outside, the door falling close behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a higher note! I've finally finished writing the next chapter of this fic with some help of some great people (thank you!!). So I will be posting that tomorrow on both my Tumblr and my Wattpad. I hope to have caught up with the chapters on here in the coming week, so from then on, all chapters will be posted everywhere at (roughly) the same time.


	11. Chapter 11

His knees were weak and trembled as he was guided upstairs to the second floor of the left wing by the young girl, who supported his weight with surprising strength, allowing him to lean on her shoulder as she held onto his arm and gently pushed him forward, her free hand resting firmly on the small of his back. His mind was still spinning as he thought about his father’s words and actions, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else, causing him to sway on his feet and occasionally stumble, being unable to see clearly where he was putting his feet as he walked, his vision blurred and out-of-focus. His cheeks were still stinging from his father’s hits, and he could not help but worry about the bruises that would appear in a few minutes’ time once the initial redness had drained away. It hadn’t been the first time something like this had happened, and although he had expected worse when he had seen his father’s face at the stables upon being caught – he had gotten worse for less - he could not get used to the anger and disgust in father’s gaze as he had looked down at him and given him that first blow. Even now, the sight of it was still hovering before his eyes, making him feel nauseous.

He hated it when his father acted this way with him, he hated how foolish and worthless he made him feel with his disparaging words and cutting blows, making him feel as if all his former wounds had been torn open once again and he was bleeding out. Unlike what his father thought and often claimed, he did try to be a good son and a worthy heir of the family legacy, but no matter how hard he tried, his efforts always seemed to go unnoticed by his father and paled in comparison to what were apparently his many faults. At moments like these, however, Paul found it difficult to care about any of that, when his own happiness seemed to be rendered unimportant by it and he found himself wishing there was another option.

It had been a while since his father had last caught him with any of his lovers or sexual interests, especially now he avoided brothels and rent boys – his father had eyes all over the city that would be more than happy to inform him if they saw him with any, as he had found out soon enough – and he shuddered to think what his father might have in mind for his punishment this time, knowing he would endeavour to bring an end to his affairs, current and future ones, for once and for all, and being unable to think of anything he could come up with himself. The uncertainty of it made him anxious.

Once they reached the door to his bedroom - or _rooms_ , seeing as his private quarters did not only consist of a more than generously proportioned bedroom with a sitting area and desk, but also a separate study, a dressing room, and a grand bathroom – Paul untangled himself from the girl’s grip and straightened himself out as a took a couple of deep breaths to regain control over himself. He smoothed out his clothes and ran a hand through his hair to push it back into place as he waited for the girl to open the door for him, only to push past her without another word and step inside as soon as he was able to. He walked on towards the dressing room, intending to examine his face and see how he looked, and was shocked to see how much he was shaking as he raised a hand to turn the doorknob. Taking another deep breath, he tried to get his body to calm down, and cursed silently when it did not help.  

“Sir?” the young girl asked, sounding unsure. Paul could hear her coming in after him and closing the door behind her, her footsteps tentative as she approached him.

“I’m alright. I’ll er… just be in here for a moment. Make my bed while you’re here, why don’t you? And light a fire. It’s cold.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” she hastily replied. Paul did not look back at her as he pulled the door open and went inside, glad to be able to have a moment of privacy, feeling like he could break down at any second and not wanting to have to go through that with her present as well.

The room was rather generous for a dressing room, richly decorated with light green wallpaper, a large closet on one wall and a large mirror with a dressing table underneath it on the other. Opposite the door there was a small window that looked out over the gardens at the side of the house and part of the driveway if he looked at a certain angle, his rooms being situated at the front of the house, so he could see carriages coming and going and, if he looked far enough, catch a glimpse of the front gate. For now, he drew the curtains as to provide himself some privacy and sat down in front of the mirror, letting a tiny whine escape as he saw how he looked, his eyes immediately snapping down, being unable to look at himself. For a brief moment he felt the need to cry, the pain he felt, heightened so suddenly by the sight of his own bruised face, being too overpowering, but he managed to suppress those feelings, knowing they would not help him with this. He had to stay strong.

Looking up again, he studied his face to see how bad it really was and where, if he could trust his experiences with them, the bruises would start to form and whether he could camouflage them superficially with makeup. Upon evaluation, he had to admit he did not look as bad as he had initially believed: his face had paled and his eyes were red and wet, which would be gone in a few minutes, and his cheeks were red and rough, making it more than clear to him that they were going to bruise, but overall it seemed his father had spared him. He had avoided his eyes and lips, as well as any other place on his body, like his neck, arms and sides, and neither had he broken the skin. His wrist still felt sore from when his father had grabbed him, but Paul doubted he would be left with anything more than finger marks, which could easily be hidden by the cuff of his shirt. Still, somewhere he was glad his father had ordered him to stay in his room for the remains of the afternoon and evening, preferring not to let anyone see him when he was looking like this, considering his cheek would have to heal for a short while before he could apply any make-up over it to cover it up if he did not want to cause any irritation.  

Tomorrow, however, he had an appointment with Mr. Lennon for the portrait, and he was certain that if he had been able to spot the love bite last time, which he had not even been able to see himself, he would be able to see the bruises as well. John would not accept any of his weak excuses like last time either; Paul could still remember the look of doubt when he had made an excuse about the bruise on his cheek not long ago, and he knew he would go against him if he felt the need to. Normally, he wouldn’t have thought twice about cancelling any of his appointments whenever something like this had happened, he had done so plenty of times with his piano lessons, but with this it felt different. He did not want to cancel the appointment at all, but neither did he wish for John to see him like this, afraid of the questions he might ask and the weak lies he would have to tell in response to them.

He considered his options for a while, before coming to the conclusion that he did not have one in the first place. He reached out to take a piece of paper from the stack on the edge of the table – he always had a stack of papers lying around in case he came up with an idea for a drawing, poem or a music piece that he wanted to remember – and picked up the fountain pen that lay beside it as well. He thought for a moment on what he wanted to say, before writing the first two lines down in a well-practised hand, occasionally pausing to think about the wording before continuing. The lines after that, however, flowed easily from his hand onto the page.

 

_Dear Mr. Lennon,_

_It is with my sincerest apologies that I must inform you I will not be able to attend our meeting tomorrow afternoon as some more pressing matters have unexpectedly arisen that require my attention. With consideration of the deadline my father and I have proposed, I would like to know if it were at all possible for us to reschedule this meeting to a later date. Naturally, I would understand if your own schedule does not allow for this, and would therefore also be content with seeing you again coming Wednesday according to our regular schedule, although I cannot help but stress that I would be very disappointed if that would be the case. Please, hand your response to the young lady who handed you this letter. She will make sure I receive it.  I hope your aunt is in good health and that you have managed to find a proper use for the money I gave you. I look forward to your answer._

_James Paul McCartney_

 

Paul read the letter a couple of times, wanting to make sure there were no errors or misspellings, before calling out for the young girl again, telling her to come to him for a moment and leave her duties for later if she had not yet finished them. As he heard the doorknob turn, he swiftly folded the letter and wrote down the address, before turning and offering it to her.

“Sadie, is it not?” he asked her as she took the letter from him. She nodded in reply. “Could you- I would like you to deliver this letter for me.”

“A letter, sir? Now?”

“Yes. I have written the address down for you. It is for a certain Mr. John Lennon. Please make sure you hand it to no one else but him, you understand? And most certainly do not show this letter to my father or ever mention it to him. I do not want this to cause him any worry. Oh, and wait for Mr. Lennon to have read the letter, as it is more than likely he will wish to send me a reply, and hand that back to me immediately.”

“But I am expected in the kitchen to prepare dinner in half an hour, sir,” the girl objected as she stared down at the letter in her hand, reading the address, a worried and confused frown on her forehead. Paul, however, did not care about her responsibilities.

“That won’t be a problem. I will vouch for you if they come to inquire about you. Please, deliver this letter for me. It is important,” he said, stressing his words as he searched for her eyes, looking deeply into them once he had her attention. The girl thought for a moment, before giving in with a nod. Paul smiled back at her, and told her leave him and take the family carriage, which she did right away, pulling the door shut again behind her, as he watched her go, suddenly nervous about the response he would receive.

The response in question arrived sometime after dinner, while Paul was reading one of his favourite books as he sat by the fire, hoping to be able to distract himself with some light entertainment as he waited not only for his father to inform him about his punishment, but also for John’s reply. The pain in his cheeks had subsided, leaving them only feeling sore when he ran his fingers over the skin, thought the first purple patches had already appeared, looking ugly and painful. The prints of his father’s fingers on his wrist, however, had gone and they had not begun to bruise either, for which Paul was glad. He had, on the other hand, not been able to relax, and his head shot up as he heard someone knocking at the door, his heart speeding up in the apprehension of who would be behind it, his father or Sadie.

“Come in,” he called and smiled as he saw Sadie come in, a letter in her hand. _John’s reply_ , Paul thought, and he sat up in his seat as he beckoned her over, eager to read what it said.

“Mr. Lennon asked me to give you this, sir,” she said and Paul nodded as he snatched the letter from her fingers and folded it open, impatient to know what it read.

“Yes, thank you, Sadie. Sit down while I read, would you? I might need you still,” he said and Sadie did as she had been told and waited while Paul read the letter, written in a messy hand that could only be expected from the older man. Paul already had to smile at the first few words, amused, as he shook his head in disapproval.

 

_Dear Paul,_

_Your decision to send such a lovely girl to deliver your mail was very considerate of you, though I would have preferred to see you in person tomorrow, but alas. Sadly, I am unable to reschedule the appointment, because Mr. Edwards is to come home after the weekend and I will need to prepare for that. My aunt is in great health, thank you for asking, but what I bought with your money, I cannot tell you, as I think you would not approve of my choice. Do know that it was greatly enjoyed. Your letter does beg the question, however, what could possibly be more pressing and important to you than me. It seems the world continues to surprise me._

_Your humble servant,_

_John_

 

Paul snickered to himself as he read the letter once more, before asking for another sheet of paper and his pen, so he could write his response:

 

_Mr. Lennon_

_For someone who not only seems to take pleasure in going against authority and all rules of English etiquette, but who also has a dislike for his addressee, you are awfully concerned with my personal life. As with most inquiries on such subjects, the answer is rather simple: that is not important, nor is it any of your business. Though, of course, I can understand your curiosity, as such an instance of my finding anything more important than you, would be a rare occasion._

_Paul_

 

He smiled to himself as he folded the letter and handed it to the girl, who put it in the pocket of her apron without another word, already understanding what was required of her. She had been about to get up and leave, reaching for his empty plates to take with her to the kitchen, when Paul stopped her, taking a hold of her wrist to catch her attention. She stared at him, eyes wide, as if wondering what she had done wrong.

“Thank you, Sadie,” Paul said to her, smiling to make her feel more at ease as he released her wrist. “You can deliver this one in the morning, if you would prefer. I realise it is getting rather late and it would not be fair of me to ask you to go into town at this hour.”

She nodded in response and uttered a thank you before picking up his plates and turning to leave a second time, this time without being called back. Paul sighed and leaned back in his seat as she pulled the door shut behind her, rubbing his temples with his fingers as he tried not to think about his father, or anything that had happened today, any longer. He was feeling exhausted, drained from his energy from all the stress and tension of the day; it seemed like ages since he had been sitting with Martha in the window seat in the library, going through his Latin book, studying his tenses, and he wished he could go back to that moment, when everything had still been good and peaceful.

He wondered what Stanley was doing in that moment, not having heard from him at all since he had last seen him at the stables, and wondered if he was doing okay. He felt sorry for him, not having wanted him to lose his job like this, but what struck him most was with how much ease he accepted the fact that he would never see him again. Of course, he was upset the affair was over, and he had liked Stanley a lot and wished him all the happiness in the world, but yet, it was not so much the fact that the affair with _him_ had ended, but that _an_ affair had ended. He missed the feeling of someone else’s touch, the feeling of someone else’s lips against his own, ghosting over his skin as they would lay in bed, he missed the intimacy, the talks, the feeling of having someone close, someone to talk to, someone who cared for him, but that hole did not have to be filled by Stanley, but just _someone_. He had not only not loved Stanley, but he barely even missed him at all. Perhaps, he thought, as he stretched himself out with a yawn, there was something wrong with him after all.

The last letter came to him late in the afternoon that Saturday by post, and came as somewhat of a surprise, as Paul had not expected anything after Sadie had come back empty-handed that Friday. In fact, he had been lucky he had been about go out for a morning stroll when the letter arrived, hoping to find his friend George to talk to him about both the end of his affair with Stanley and his failed attempt to ask his father for a raise, knowing his father would not agree to that suggestion after what had happened. He was in the main hall and had just pulled on his coat when the head butler came in with a small stack of letters, browsing through them all as he made his way towards his father’s study, intending to leave the mail there as he usually did. He halted, however, when he spotted Paul, and hurried over to him as he got a single letter from the small stack in his hands and offered it to him.

“This one is for you, sir. There is no return address, which is curious,” the man said and Paul frowned as he took the letter from him, though he quickly realised who it was from once he saw the handwriting, which was so messy he could recognise it at once. He repressed a smile and thanked the butler for bringing it to him, before excusing himself, turning away from the other man as he opened the letter, not wanting anyone to see it but him. The butler got the hint, and walked away with a polite “certainly, sir”, leaving Paul alone to allow him the privacy he wanted. To Paul’s surprise, the letter was short, consisting of only one line, that made him both frown and smile at the same time, being unsure what exactly John meant by it.

 

_I do not dislike you._

 

The words were so simple, and yet, Paul found it hard to fully grasp the extent of them. He stared down at the letter a short while longer, before he was interrupted once more, this time by a young lady, as he could hear from her voice.

“Mr. McCartney, sir? Your father wishes to speak with you in his study,” she said and Paul glanced at her over his shoulder, before he looked back at the letter in his hand with a displeased murmur, knowing what that meant.

“Does he? What does he look like?” he asked.

“Sir?”

“My father? What is his emotional state like? Was he angry? Gloomy? Stressed?” Paul clarified as he folded up the letter and pocketed it in the inside pocket of his blazer, before turning around to face her, waiting impatiently for an answer. The girl looked somewhat taken aback and Paul only realised now he was talking to Sadie again.

“No, sir. He seemed rather pleased, actually,” she said and Paul swallowed at that, thinking that could not bode well for him, seeing as his father was rarely pleased about anything, especially things that had to do with him.

“Alright,” he said after a brief moment of silence, “I will come with you.”

*** 

The book in his hand felt heavy as John attempted to focus on what under normal circumstances would be an interesting and engaging story, finding it difficult not to let his mind wander into other directions, one of which was especially pressing. He knew it was unreasonable to expect an answer back from Paul already, seeing as he had only sent his letter yesterday as a special delivery, which meant he would have received it this morning, or perhaps the afternoon, at the earliest, but he could not help but worry about it. He had felt unsure about his answer from the moment he had written it down, asking himself if perhaps he was pushing it too far, the words being rather suggestive if one thought about it for longer than a second and he was unsure how Paul would react to that. He had intended for it to shock and unsettle him, enjoying teasing him and pushing boundaries like Paul had said, but he worried about what would happen if he could not see the humour in it and did not appreciate it. Perhaps he shouldn’t have written that.

“John, dear, why don’t you put that book of yours away and join Stuart and me in our game? Your mind is looking far too occupied, and I don’t like it,” Cynthia said from across the room, catching John’s attention, who looked up over the edge of his book to look at them as they continued to play their game of chess and enjoy a glass of inexpensive scotch. It appeared to be Stuart’s turn, judging by the serious look on his friend’s face as stared at the pieces and bit his nails, going through every possible move and outcome in his head before tentatively moving a piece, only to put it back in its original place when Cynthia made a disapproving noise.

“Chess is a game for two, Miss Powell, as you well know,” John muttered, grinning at the look of despair on his friend’s face before he picked up a random pawn and moved it one step forward without any further thought, only to whimper as Cynthia took his last horse without so much as looking at the board, leaving is king exposed.

“Oh that does not matter. You can help me!” she told John, crossing her legs as she took a sip from her drink, a smug grin hiding on her lips as she watched Stuart contemplate his next move.

“Please, if there is anyone who deserves my help it is Stuart, but he is already a lost cause for this game and I would very much like to save myself the embarrassment of losing to you in a game of two against one. I do have some dignity.”

“John? What is bothering you?” Cynthia asked with a sigh, as she got up and took a seat on the sofa next to him, resting her arm on John’s drawn up knees as she glanced past them and into his eyes, making it difficult for him to look away from her. From the corner of his eyes he could see Stuart move some chess pieces around, probably trying to create a situation for himself in which he could, miraculous as it was, win.

“Stuart is cheating,” he told Cynthia, hoping to distract her so he would not need to tell her, not wishing to discuss matters that had to do with the McCartneys with her or Stuart, or anyone else for that matter. Cynthia, however, looked unimpressed and shrugged at the information.

“Yes, he does that a lot. It is the only way he can still manage to win. Now, tell me what is not your mind.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“John-“ Cynthia started, but she was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. About a minute later, the door opened and Dot came in, looking rather flustered as she turned to John.

“Mr. McCartney is here to speak with you, Mr. Lennon. He er… he is not looking very good, if I may say so. Should I let him in?” John blinked at her in surprise a few times as he let the words sink in, and glanced at Cynthia and Stuart who were staring at him, looking just as surprised if he was, if not more. Finally, John nodded.

“Yes, Dot. Let him in. I’ll speak with him in the hallway. Cyn, could you put on some tea for us?” he said as he started to get up onto his feet, trying hard to ignore the look of disbelieve on his friend’s face.

“Tea? John, you are not really going to let him in, are you?”

“Well, I can’t very much let him stand outside in the cold, can I?”

“Of course you can! You don’t even know what it is he wants. I thought the next meeting was Wednesday afternoon.”

“Yes, but I can’t know what he wants without speaking to him first. It will be fine, Cyn. Just put on some tea and be nice to him,” he said and without another word, he followed Dot into the hallway where Paul stood waiting for him. He still had his coat and hat on, and his scarf hid most of his face from view, but John could see something was wrong straightaway from how the man was holding himself, the tension in his body making it more than clear to John something had happened. The suspicion was only confirmed when Paul turned around and caught his eye, the usual softness in those colourful irises having turned hard and cold. He took off his hat and moved the scarf away from his mouth before he began to speak.

“I… I apologise for coming here unannounced, but… you said I was always welcome here, so I figured… But I can leave if you would prefer. I do not wish to interfere with anything,” he said as he nodded into the direction of the living room, letting John know he had heard what Cynthia had said about him at the announcement of his presence. John, however, quickly shook his head at that.

“Don’t be silly. I told you, you were always welcome here, and I will not go back on that now. Let Dot put away your coat and we can have some tea, if you like. My friend, Miss Powell, is making us some,” John said, but to his surprise Paul shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary, John. Actually, I only had one thing I wanted to ask you and I do not wish to impose on your free evening anymore than I need to.”

“Ask me?” John repeated, curious now as he looked Paul up and down as if he could deduce from his looks what the question could possibly be. Paul nodded once more and took a deep breath before looking up to catch his eye and asking a question that made John blink up at him in surprise, momentarily rendering him lost for words. 

“How do you feel about Paris?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paris... that's all I have to say about this


	12. Chapter 12

Aunt Mimi’s house was much farther removed from Mr. Edwards’s establishment than John would have preferred, the house being situated at the other side of the city, which made it difficult for him to travel between the two as much as he would have liked. Although he had been glad to leave to live on his own when Mr. Edwards had first offered him the room, the longer he was away from home, the more he missed his aunt and the more he wished he at least lived closer to her. He wasn’t certain how long it had been since his last visit, the last couple of weeks having passed by too swiftly for him with all that had happened to keep proper track of time, and he felt nervous at the apprehension of what kind of welcome he would be given after such a long time of not having received as much as a word from him, never mind a proper visit. There was not a flicker of doubt in his mind, however, that she would not be happy to see him, and it was this knowledge that made John knock on the door of his aunt’s house and not turn away soon after.

He held his breath as he waited for someone to answer to door, preparing himself for to odd chance that it was his aunt herself, which happened only rarely when either her servants were otherwise engaged or had a day off, and repeated the few rehearsed lines in his head that he had prepared as an excuse for his absence over the last couple of weeks, if not months. He could hear rattling behind the door and hushed voices talking to each other about something that John was unable to hear, the words coming muffled through the wooden door. Much to his surprise, it was not any of the servants nor his aunt herself who opened the door for him, but instead a young man who was a couple of years older than him and whom John had not seen before.

“Good morning,” the young man said in an cheery voice, a large pleasant smile appearing on his lips as he looked John up and down. “What can I do for you?”

“I am here to see my aunt. Is she at home?” John replied in a firm voice, unsure what to think of the man before him, as he tended to be suspicious of anyone who seemed unusually cheery without apparent reason. Moreover, as far as he knew his aunt hadn’t mentioned anything about employing a young man or anything along such lines, which was strange as she always told him everything about such matters, seeing as he in a way still lived here and left her a considerable amount of his weekly wages. What surprised him even more was when the man’s face brightened at his words as he extended his hand for John to shake.

“You must be John Lennon, Mrs. Smith’s nephew. Yes, she has told me about you. I am John Cavill. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please, come in,” he said in a kind voice and John shook the other man’s hand politely before stepping inside, where he started unbuttoning his coat as he turned to the other man.

“And who, if I may ask, are you exactly, Mr. Cavill? I must admit I haven’t heard my aunt make any kind of mention of you.”

“I suppose you haven’t, no. I haven’t been here long, you see. Your aunt was kind enough to let me rent a room here. I’m a student at the university,” Mr. Cavill explained as he offered to take John’s coat from him, which he allowed, albeit with mistrust, still being unsure about him. He had to speak with his aunt first.

“Your aunt is in the parlour,” Mr. Cavill added as he hung the coat on a peg, smiling as he noticed John watching him curiously, his eyes narrowed as he studied his features, trying to decide what he made of him. For a moment he did not reply, but then he nodded and thanked him as he turned around and made his way to the parlour, pushing the door open and stepping inside to see his aunt sitting in an armchair by the fire reading a book, her glasses riding low on her nose, daring to fall off, but kept in place only just by her nostrils. She glanced up at the sound of someone coming into the room unannounced and had been about to complain about wanting them to knock first when she saw it was none other than her nephew who was standing there, a nervous grimace on his lips as he closed the door behind him, his eyes never leaving his aunt’s form. She was growing old, the light wrinkles in her face having deepened since he had last seen her, and she was growing thinner, her already slender form having slimmed to such an extent that John could see the bones of her wrists and fingers as she removed her glasses from her nose and laid down the book on the mantelpiece. Her voice, on the other hand, was still as forceful and demanding as before.

“I see you have finally decided to pay your dear aunt a visit. Come here, then. Have a seat.” She sounded ill-disposed as she spoke to him, clearly disappointed by his lack of visits, though there was a hint of warmth in her tone of voice that told John somewhere she was glad, if one could use that word in relation to her, to see him. John, feeling as if he were only sixteen again and suspended from school for a couple of days after making inappropriate noises at his teacher, approached her at a careful pace, and leaned down to kiss her cheek before doing as she had said and sitting down in the seat opposite hers so he could look at her directly and still be kept warm by the fire. He decided not to go into the reasons why he hadn’t been able to visit as much as he normally would, knowing she would not accept whatever reason he would give her, and instead he changed the subject matter, hoping she would not ask further if he did.

“I have met Mr. Cavill.”

“Ah, yes. Such a polite young man, don’t you agree?” aunt Mimi said and took a hold of a small silver bell which she rung twice before setting it back down and continuing. “Would you like some tea?”

“Mimi, what is he doing here?” John asked, ignoring the question. One of the maids came into the parlour, alerted by the sound of the bell, and before she had had the chance to enquire what she could do for them, Mimi told her to bring them some tea and biscuits, to which the girl replied with a  silent nod before hurrying out of the room to do as she had been asked. John repeated her name to urge his aunt on in her answer, but what he got in return was a foul look.

“He is a student at the university here, John. As you could have been if you had done your best in school. He was in need for a room so I offered him one.”

“And why, may I ask, _did_ you offer him one?” John pressed on, ignoring the little jibe she had made at him, and like before his aunt remained silent for a while, keeping her eyes straight on her nephew as she let him wait before she formulated her answer, which was built to leave him, frustratingly enough, with more questions.

“You know very well why I offered him that room, John. Or you would have if you were to take more interest in your aunt,” she said, but when her nephew did not respond, she sighed and continued. “The last few weeks have been hard on me, John. I need the money.”

“The money? But Mimi… I thought you were managing fine with the money I send you every week.”

“I used to, only… There is some trouble with the bank. You know your uncle left us with a generous amount when he passed on, or so we thought, but some of it was claimed by a Mr. Crook. Gambling debts, they tell me,” Mimi explained, her expression turning more and more sour as she spoke. John shuffled his chair closer to her, his body turning cold as he feared the answer to his next question, being well aware what kind of debts his late uncle had been able to get into, especially when he was drunk, which he had been more often than not those last few weeks of his life.

“How much did he claim?” he asked, jaw tight as he awaited her answer. Mimi glanced up at her nephew before bowing her head in shame and uttering her answer.

“Enough. A couple hundred. My allowance has dropped more than I can afford and I have already needed to let most of my staff go, John. Theresa is all I have left. But I need some kind of income if I want to continue my life here in the manner I am used to, so I rented out the two bedrooms upstairs to a couple of students. The pay is enough for me to keep up the life I am accustomed to.”

“Mimi…”

“Do not belittle me, John! I know what kind of life I wish to lead and I am more than willing to make sacrifices to make that happen. I had always known your uncle’s gambling habits would come to bite me even after his death and I knew what kind of man I would marry when he asked me for my hand and now I shall have to deal with the consequences,” she told him and John nodded in reply as he let out a deep sigh, wishing he could do something for her, but knowing there was nothing. The young girl, Theresa, came into the parlour carrying a tray with tea and biscuits and set it down on the coffee table where she poured it out for them. Mimi thanked her as she handed her her cup and John accepted his own with a thankful nod before she excused herself and left to do her other tasks, leaving aunt and nephew alone once more.

“I am sorry, Mimi,” John said after a moment of silence, but she shook her head, taking a careful sip of her tea.

“I will manage. Now, tell me why you are here.”

“Can I not visit my aunt without any other reason than that I wished to see her?” John asked. When Mimi shot him a knowing look, he cleared his throat and sat up a bit more as he gathered himself to bring her the news. “I am leaving for Paris.”

She nearly choked on her tea at his words. “Paris?”

He nodded and took a deep breath, deciding it was best for him and his aunt if he were to begin his explanation at the beginning, having expected the surprise but not the worry he found in her eyes. “I had intended to write to you about it,” he started, hoping to assuage his aunt’s anger at him for not having told her anything about what had been happening to him the last couple of weeks, in advance, “but I have been commissioned to do Mr. Paul McCartney’s portrait and now he has asked me to join him on one of his trips to Paris. There is an opening for a new art exhibition at The Salon, and because he knows about my art, he asked me to come with him. For exposure, you see.”

“You were commissioned to do Mr. McCartney’s portrait?”

“Yes. Or rather, his father spoke to Mr. Edwards about it, but because he had to leave for another assignment, he left it to me.”

“And now you are joining him on a trip to Paris? To get exposure for your art?” Mimi asked and John nodded, surprised at the ease with which his aunt seemed to take this new information, merely nodding back at him as she leaned back in her chair and thought for a moment.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Not long. A week or two, perhaps. We’ll leave this Wednesday.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“The McCartneys own a couple of rooms there. Mr. McCartney offered me one of the rooms to stay in. The costs will be covered by him as well,” John explained, frowning as his aunt hummed in response, seeming deep in thought as she considered his answers, though he could understand her mistrust. “He will also translate for me when needed, so the language will not be a problem either.”

“And you have agreed to this?”

“Yes, of course. I mean, it is a chance in a lifetime, Mimi. I won’t be offered this again. He says he sees some good potential in my art, and who knows who might be there at the opening! How could I possibly not agree?” His aunt hummed once more in reply. “Mimi?”

“I apologise, John. I realise this is a wonderful opportunity for you - one of the best you have had since you decided to leave school rather than aim to get a place at a university, for which I know you had the potential - it is only that… you and I both know what kind of stories go around about that family, and that worries me. Mostly because… I can vouch for some of them,” Mimi explained and John stared at her for a moment, before he understood what she was implying and found his voice.

“You have met them?” he asked, intrigued, and Mimi nodded, letting out a deep sigh as she leaned towards her nephew, having a quick glance at the door to make sure it was closed before she began to speak.

“I cannot say I knew them personally, but I was once invited to one of the few balls they have held in their manor. It must have been a good twelve years ago now, because the sons were still young, children of perhaps seven or nine, and Mary McCartney was still alive. I do not remember much about them, but Mr. McCartney was much like how people describe him: unpleasant, arrogant and strict, but in a way cruel as well. I only saw him dancing twice that evening, both times to please his wife, while he mostly sat in a corner watching his wife as she spoke with the guests, occasionally having a brief conversation of his own with some other important fellow. Even to his own children he was strict and he handled them with a firm hand, punishing them with a slap of his own hand whenever they behaved in a manner that he considered to be inappropriate for children of such high stature and ordering them around to do as he wanted.

“The boys themselves, on other hand, were much lovelier, much more like their mother, with good manners and were kind and gentle as they spoke with the guests or played in one of the nearby rooms. They were spoilt, though, and obviously so, feeling entitled to whatever they desired, that being toys, sweets, pets, clothes, anything you could name. Even their nannies did whatever they desired. Michael was shy, being the youngest, and mostly hid behind his much more eloquent brother. They were both handsome and delightful, but Paul was charming to the point where he was manipulative, knowing how to get exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, from everyone, his angelic features, chubby cheeks, and lasting baby fat making him even more adorable, which he knew how to take advantage of for his own benefit. He used to tease his own mother too, I noticed, manipulating her and making fun of her whenever he got bored, turning people into toys to be played with for his own and his brother’s entertainment. I do not doubt Michael was any better, however, and it would not surprise me if they have grown up to be much like their father after their mother had passed away.

“All I can really say, is that having seen them in person, the rumours that go about the streets do not seem as far-fetched as you might think, John. Even back in those days, shops would close down when the McCartneys were disappointed with the service they provided and Mr. McCartney did unapologetically close down many of the theatres and pubs a couple of years ago, deeming them both sinful, full of lies and deceit, and a breeding ground for moral decay. It is not hard for me to imagine that the stories of people being sent from their land, or fired without decent warning, might be true.”

John remained quiet for a while, letting his aunt’s words sink in as he considered them, the things she had said about Paul being rather at odds with the image he had of him in his mind. After all, although he was arrogant, he had always been kind with him and Dot and had not tried to manipulate them to do anything, nor had he seemed particularly entitled to anything. If anything, he had seemed nice. Unless of course, he had meant to come across like that. John attempted to push the thoughts away as doubt began to cloud his mind.

“Listen, John. I do not mean to keep you from going to Paris, but I do want you to be careful around that man and his family, you understand? I do not want you to do anything you might regret, so I thought it was best to let you know this. I know many people have probably already told you, but this man really can either make your life or destroy it,” Mimi said, laying a supportive hand on his knee as she caught his eyes with her own, offering him a reassuring smile. John took a deep breath and nodded.

“Thank you, Mimi,” he muttered.

“Besides, maybe he will have a positive effect on you and you will finally learn some discipline and respect,” Mimi replied with a wink, causing John to laugh, his body relaxing once more. His aunt was right, he could not pass this opportunity up; he just needed to be careful.

*** 

The wait until that following Wednesday did not take long. Mr. Edwards had returned home from his assignment that Monday and had been more than happy with the process he had made on the McCartney portrait and was excited to hear about his trip to Paris, slapping John firmly on the shoulder as he told him he had already known he could do it when he had first offered him the assignment, being overtly proud of his apprentice. Stuart too was happy for him, knowing how much the opportunity meant to him, but his warnings to be careful around Paul had increased to an almost hourly event, slowly driving John insane to the point where he had needed to lock himself into his room every couple of hours to escape the other man. Still, his concerns were appreciated, certainly after what his aunt had told him about the family, although he still had trouble believing it.

Paul arrived at his door at ten o’clock in the morning as they had agreed and let his driver carry John’s suitcases into the carriage while he spoke with Mr. Edwards, inquiring about his own trip and explaining about the art exhibition in Paris. John knew he should listen as well, but his nerves made it difficult for him to focus, seeing as he had never even left Liverpool before, except to visit family up in Scotland, which he did not think counted. They would stay in London for a day and a night before they would catch the boat to France, where Paul had arranged for another carriage to pick them up and drive them all the way to Paris with only two stops on the way to let the horses rest and regather strength. He wondered what London would be like, knowing only what he had heard from others, most of whom had been more than positive, having loved the city and all it had to offer in terms of art, food, fashion and girls – although John hoped the last was also true for boys – but some had been less enthusiastic, thinking it filthy, dangerous, and expensive, and the people rude and up-tight, with more beggars and fools than there should be in one city. Still, John doubted he would dislike it. But as for Paris, he did not have the faintest idea of what to expect.

“Mr. Lennon? Are you all set to leave? We have a long journey ahead of us and I do not want to miss our boat,” Paul said, watching him with a polite smile that made crinkles appear in the corners of his eyes and his cheeks round up, making him appear even more attractive than he already was, which caused John’s stomach to churn from both anxiety, worrying whether he was actually manipulating him, and something else that he could not – or did not want to – name. He swallowed thickly in an attempt to reduce his nausea and offered the young man a grin of his own.

“We can go,” he said and Paul nodded in return before turning back to Mr. Edwards to shake his hand and say goodbye, promising him he would look out for John in Paris and London and that they would send a letter when they were to leave for Liverpool again.

“Thank you, Mr. McCartney. I hope you will have a pleasant journey. And John? I know for certain they will appreciate your work there; they will be stupid if they don’t,“ Mr. Edwards said, turning to his apprentice to shake his hand and say goodbye, pride reflected in his eyes. John could not help the grin that appeared on his lips at the praise and muttered a deeply-meant thank you before turning towards Stuart who stood silently beside him, hugging him close to him as he told him he was going to miss him and to send his regards to Cynthia and Astrid when he would see them again. Stuart agreed immediately and hugged his friend back as he told he would miss him too now he would have to work alone again. When John pulled away from him and turned towards Paul, he frowned as he noticed the somewhat sour expression on the latter’s features as he watched him and Stuart, but he decided to make no mention of it.

Wishing the others goodbye one last time, John felt excitement spread throughout his body as he made his way towards the carriage, unsure what to expect from the coming week or two, and he muttered a thank you as Paul offered him to step inside first. His hands were sweaty as he crawled his way into the carriage and sat down on the surprisingly comfortable bench, smiling nervously as Paul climbed in after him and took a seat opposite him before closing the door behind him. They had barely been inside the carriage or it started moving, driving them away from home, through the city, and finally into the rural landscape of Northern England on their way to the south.

It was a dull, grey day with heavy clouds covering the blue sky overhead, thus blocking out the sun and toning down the colours of the many trees, bushes, hedges, fields, and flowers as they drove past. Horses and cattle stood grazing in the fields, grouped together like school children as some hurried from one group to another and back again, and John watched them in silence as he listened to the rolling wheels of the carriage over the streets and the dirt pathways, the sense that he was going on an unknown journey overtaking him and causing his heart to race faster from excitement.

Paul sat across from him, legs crossed and attempting to read a book as they were tossed about the carriage due to the rough roads they were driving over, looking surprisingly unaffected by it, his expression stoic as his eyes flickered over the page, unaware of the other man’s interest in him. From what he could see, the bruises John had noticed the last time he had seen him had almost vanished, being barely more than a yellowish stain he had attempted to hide with some clever application of make-up, but John still wondered where he had gotten them from, knowing that the chance that he would fall from his horse twice in such a short period of time was slim. He had considered asking him about it, but he also knew that the chance of Paul sharing this information was slim as well, already being able to hear him saying it was not important, as he usually did. So, instead, in the hope to pass some time, he asked him something else in a weak attempt to make conversation with him, figuring he might as well, as they would have to spend two full weeks together.

“Say, Paul? Why did you ask me to come with you?” he asked. The question at least caught the other man’s attention, his eyes pausing briefly on the page before he glanced up at him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I appreciate the company. And besides, as an inspiring artist I thought you would appreciate the exposure it would give you. Not everyone gets a chance like this, you know.”

“Well so you’ve said, but why really? I mean, why me, why now? It cannot all be for my benefit?” John asked, and Paul sighed as he closed his book, turning all his attention onto John as he answered.

“Mr. Lennon,” he started, looking the other man directly in the eye as he spoke, “it has been a while since I met anyone who did not despise me from the moment they heard my name, and going on my own or bringing a servant along does not appeal much to me for reasons that ought to be clear. So, as I have said, I appreciate the company.”

John remained silent at that, not having expected that answer, and being unsure how to react to it. Paul, on the other hand, seemed amused by his lack of response and tapped with his knuckles on the wood of the carriage, notifying his driver of something, before he leaned down to put his book back into his suitcase and got out a small mirror which he used to freshen up, before handing it to John.

“Here,” he said, “we will be having lunch soon if I am not mistaken. It is a bit of a high class place so it would do to make yourself look a little more presentable if you wish to avoid any prying questions.”

Not two minutes after he had said this, the carriage came to a halt before a rather fancy-looking place where they got out for lunch, although John wondered why Paul had bothered handing him his mirror, still feeling very much under-dressed and out-of-place as Paul guided him up the stairs and into the building, the inside looking much like the upper-end gentlemen clubs John had seen in the posher parts of Liverpool, where they were instantly welcomed by a handsome young man who led them to a table.

After a lengthy lunch, they drove on, occasionally stopping to have a drink somewhere while the horses rested for a moment to regather their strength, until the sun had set and they needed to find a place to spend the night before making the rest of their way to London in the morning. As before with lunch, John was once again surprised by Paul’s planning skills when he stepped outside of the carriage and found himself in front of an inn, only to hear the driver, who John had now learned was called Miles and was Paul’s personal driver, tell them to go inside and have a drink while he would take care of everything and check them in, claiming it should not take too long as the arrangement have already been made for them. Paul gave John little time to be impressed, however, urging him on to go inside, saying it was too cold to linger around outside and that he was in dire need for a drink after such a long drive, both of which being excellent points with which John could not disagree, not being able to say no to a drink himself.

The inn was a lot less fancy than the other places John had been this day and he felt glad to finally be somewhere where he did not feel out-of-place or unwanted, the inn feeling cosy and warm as they made their way past the reception and into the bar, most of the flooring being simple wood and the walls of covered with what looked like second-hand panelling and wallpaper. The seats and chairs were wooden as well, and the sofas were covered with cheap leather and fabrics as they were placed around two roaring fireplaces on either end of the room. A bar stood in the middle and a set of stairs led up to another room where they were told by a small wooden sign by the stairs more seating was put down.

Paul ordered them both a glass of highly expensive scotch and they both took a seat on one of the fabric-covered couches by the fireplace, hoping to warm their bones from the long ride in the carriage, their coats only being able to provide them so much warmth, which had not been enough for them to feel comfortable. John hummed as he took a sip from his scotch, enjoying the warm burn as he let it run down his throat, feeling better already now he was someplace warm and comfortable with some good alcohol to relax his body and warm him from the inside out. Paul on the other hand, seemed less pleased, taking to staring into the fire as he got lost in thought, worry crossing his features as he drifted away from reality and into the world of his own thoughts. John watched him for a moment, trying to catch glimpses of emotions that would tell him what was bothering the other man, slowly coming to the conclusion that there was a lot more going on with this trip than he let on.

“What are you thinking about?” John heard himself ask after a long moment of silence. For a minute he thought Paul had not heard him, and he had been about to get up to go to the bathroom when he finally spoke.

“It is not important. I tend to think too much. I am sorry for not being very good company.”

“You know, you have been saying that it is not important too many times for me to believe it. I don’t mind you thinking, but I do wonder what is wrong,” John said and Paul let out a deep sigh as he thought about John’s words for a moment before answering, shaking his head “no” as he did so.

“It is nothing that you need to busy yourself with. Besides, I think some sleep would be best for me right now, so if you would  excuse me, I think I will retire for the evening. Miles should have gotten our keys by now anyway, I think,” he said and he finished his drink before he got up. Before he left, however, he turned to John and told him to do the same soon, as they would be leaving early in the morning. “I would like to leave at eight, if you do not mind. We still have rather a long way to go and I would like to be in London for dinner. So… goodnight, Mr. Lennon. Miles will take you to your room.”

John nodded in return and Paul forced himself to smile at him before turning around and walking away, leaving John alone with his thoughts and ideas on what was going on with the other man, unwittingly making him even more determined to find out exactly what was bothering the other man now he had the chance.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! I've finally caught up with the chapters! All new chapters will (I hope) be posted every Saturday from now on. Also, thanks again to everyone who has helped me one way or another with this chapter. I love you all :)

The following morning the two young men left around eight o’clock as planned, washed and dressed in fresh clothes after a night’s sleep in a firm but warm bed, and having finished their breakfast which was supposed to last them till lunch when they would stop again to have something to eat and stretch their legs while they horses rested, before continuing on for the rest of the journey. Yet, despite all these plans and preparations, John could not say he felt particularly well-rested or eager for the journey that lay ahead of him and struggled to keep his eyes open as the carriage rolled over the rough countryside roads, having slept only three or four hours before Miles had awoken him to tell him Paul was waiting for him for breakfast below. It had been his troubled and preoccupied mind had been the interest of his curiosity throughout the night, keeping him awake as he thought about what could worry his companion so. Yet, in spite of his endeavours, he had not managed to think of anything so far, but he was determined to find out what the issue was, the man’s pensive mood doing little good to his own.

Even now, as Paul sat – like the day before – across from him, legs crossed and his book in his lap, forgotten this time as he instead took to staring out of the window to watch the scenery pass him by, he did nothing to acknowledge the other man’s presence. He had barely said a word to him all day, except for a polite “good morning” and if he could pass him the milk at breakfast, being lost in his own troubling thoughts for the remaining time. At first, John had attempted to occupy himself by reading the paper, but with each passing minute the articles he was reading were becoming less and less interesting and his companion’s absentmindedness thus the more annoying, ultimately leaving him with no other choice but say something of it.

“If you do plan on brooding the entire way to Paris as you have been doing so far, at least have the common decency to inform me what it is you are brooding about so I can join you,” he said, and although it took a moment for him to react, Paul did eventually turn his eyes on him, a questioning frown on his brow.

“I am not brooding,” he objected, but John scoffed in return.

“I have done a copious amount of it myself to know what it looks like and you have been doing nothing but since last night. Frankly, it is becoming rather irksome.”

“I have already told you I do not need to share anything with you and for that I won’t,” Paul told him, and resolutely turned his body away from him as he picked up his book and opened it on a random page, his long elegant fingers fumbling with the pages as he pretended to read in the hope to cut himself off from John and avoid any further questions. John, however, having had enough of the lack of conversation, continued to push on nonetheless.

“Is your father involved?” he asked, shuffling forward in his seat as he awaited an answer, allowing a grin to emerge as he watched a look of utter shock and outrage appear on the man’s face, his eyes growing wide at the insinuation. Clearly, he had struck a nerve.

“I don’t… I would suggest you change your tone, Mr. Lennon, and drop the subject. I refuse to indulge you in anything when you have the audacity to make such ridiculous speculations and I most certainly do not plan to tell you anything and that’s the end of it,’ he said, shooting him one last heated look before turning back to his book, his expression cold as his eyes slid over the page at too quick a pace for him to be reading.

“But I am correct, aren’t I?” John pressed on. When Paul did not answer, he let out a deep sigh and decided to approach it from a different direction, knowing he would continue to refuse him any answers no matter how hard he tried if he continued his prying. So, for the moment, he let the subject of Paul’s troubles pass, leaving it to rest to be picked up again at a later moment when Paul would be in a better, more talkative mood, and decided on another, more neutral subject instead.

“What time do you think we’ll arrive in London?” he asked plainly, and Paul glanced up at him with a calculating gaze before lowering his eyes to his book once more, turning the page in such an aggressive yet calculated manner that John thought it to be a warning of some sorts. To his luck, on the other hand, Paul indulged him with an answer.

“In time for dinner, I hope. I have made us dinner reservations, so it would be a shame to have to cancel those. Besides, our boat will be leaving tomorrow evening and it would be nice to have a day to rest and enjoy the city before we leave again. It has been a while since I’ve last been myself,” he said as he kept his eyes on the page, his voice still tight, as if uncertain about John’s true intentions with this question, but at least he was speaking to him, which John supposed was as good a sign as any. He felt relieved, at least, to know that once they were in London he would not need to get into a carriage for a little while, having had quite enough of them over the last two days, his back aching from sitting in such a uncomfortable position for long periods of time, the discomfort and pain of which caused him to long to walk amongst the living once more and admire the city as any visiting person ought to, hopefully with Paul as his guide. The man had visited the city so often before, he had to be able to show him all he ought to see during their short visit and tell him some interesting things about the sights in question. At the thought alone, he felt his heart speed up with excitement.

“I have never been to London. I wonder what it’s like,” he admitted to the other man, who finally raised his eyes at him, as if he was surprised by it, the coldness having left them once more as he seemed pleased by the unexpected change of topic – at least for him.

“I could show you around if you’d like. I would not call myself an expert or anything, but I have been there often enough to know the most important sights,” Paul offered right away, and John smiled thankfully as he nodded, his clear excitement causing a small amused smile to creep onto Paul’s lips as well as he put his book aside to talk to John instead, leaning towards him as he folded his hands in his lap.

“I am afraid, though,” he said, his smile changing into a smug grin, “that our explorations will have to wait until tomorrow, as I have planned something else that might interest you if you wish to join me. You do not have to, of course, but knowing your interest in art, I think this might appeal to you. In fact, I think I will keep it a surprise for now.”

“A surprise?”

“It’s when a person keeps a certain thing a secret from another person in order to heighten the feeling of pleasure and surprise when it eventually happens,” Paul replied jokingly and John rolled his eyes as he feigned laughter.

“I know what a surprise is,” John retorted.

“Then why are you not excited? Surprises are supposed to be exciting.”

“Yes, except the pleasurable part of the surprise was often missing in my experience with them,” John said and Paul visibly started at his answer, his mouth opening and closing momentarily as he thought of what to say in response, his lack of experience with such honest and forward answers rendering him, if only momentarily, speechless.

“I-I am sorry to hear that,” was what came out of his mouth in the end, and he frowned, though John could not be sure whether it was out of sympathy or his own struggles with the English language, which must be strange to him, or perhaps a mixture of both. Whatever it was, John waved it away.

“Don’t be. I am certain this one will be much more pleasing,” he promised, if only to make the other man feel more at ease, finding it hard to believe it himself. As long as Paul did not worry about that as well, though, it was all fine with him.

***

The carriage drove into the city of London that evening around dinner time, only slightly later than Paul had preferred. The sun had lowered in the sky, painting it with deep shades of scarlet and gold as its rays shone through the many tall and close-standing buildings, creating shimmers on the cobblestone streets where men were making their way home after another day at work to be greeted there by their faithful wives for dinner and to pat their children on their heads before sending them off to bed to enjoy their evenings in quiet by themselves. Some had their wives at their sides, or children holding their hand, but most were alone, and Paul could see John watching them as he took in the city, with all its buildings and bridges and statues, illuminated by the warm but weak light of the evening sun and the streetlights that were being lit by the lamplighters, as if through magic, their poles resting on their shoulders like fire-inducing wands, as they made their way through the darkening city to light it up once more.

Paul watched the other man with interest as he took in all his excited little exclamations and reactions at what he saw, wonder in his eyes as an almost permanent smile governed his lips, which looked as charming as the rest of him and had not left since they had driven across the River Thames and alongside the Palace of Westminster, where – Paul had not been able to help but think as a cold shiver had run down his spine – Prime Minister Perceval had been assassinated not even a decade ago. John had been most intrigued as he had shared the news, and his eyes had barely left the Palace as they had driven past it, as if he could not imagine something as horrid as that had taken place somewhere so near to where he was now. Despite the man’s concerning disregard for his privacy when it came to his private problems, Paul had not regretted his decision to ask him to join him on this trip and was glad he had agreed in spite of his initial surprise and logical objections, knowing he was going to enjoy showing him around London and Paris and feeling glad he was not here alone. The distraction he offered was a welcome one.

They drove further into the city, passing The Old Bailey, St. Paul’s Cathedral and finally the Tower of London before they halted in front of an impressive building with two young men waiting outside in formal dress, what Paul knew and John could guess was their uniform. They acknowledged Paul with a polite nod as they watched him climb out of the coach and placed their gloved hands onto the richly embellished, gold-painted doorknob, ready to open the door for him as soon as it was required of them, as good employees ought to do. Paul, however, paid them little mind, turning instead to John whom he offered his hand to help him step out of the coach and make his way down the small set of stairs as he watched the flickers of awe and confusion on his features with amusement as he stared up at the building ahead, the frowns turning into smiles and back into frowns again numerous times in what could only have been perhaps two or three seconds.

“Miles?” Paul asked, his eyes still on his companion as he shut the door behind him, watching him take a couple of steps towards the building as he wrapped his coat a little firmer around himself to shield him from the chilly evening air, his auburn hair catching in the wind.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take our suitcases home and tell them to prepare the guest room as well before you return here. Oh, and have something quick to eat while you’re there if you want. But don’t be too long; I do not want to be late,” Paul said, not even turning to his driver, as he instead approached the man before him and placed a guiding hand against his back, between his shoulder blades, giving him a careful smile as the older man glanced at him with a questioning look in his eyes, startled at the feeling of a firm hand on his back, steering him gently towards the two men at the door. Yet, despite this, he did not pull away and allowed him to do so, which pleased Paul more than he knew it should.

“I hope you are hungry,” he said, looking away from him and up at the purple sky above as he realised he had been staring, but still, from the corner of his eye, he could see how John relaxed at the question, smiling and nodding eagerly as he looked up at the building with renewed interest and allowed Paul to guide him closer, seeming pleased with the prospect of warm food and good wine. Paul could not say he felt any different.

Dinner, although it had to be kept brief, was pleasant and relaxing, allowing the two men to fill their stomachs with elaborate dishes, prepared by one of the better chefs in London, and perhaps even in England, as they spoke to each other. John especially was greatly impressed as was easy to read from his face, even if he did attempt to hide it, and Paul felt himself so taken by the other man’s reaction to it all, he was rendered incapable to deny him anything, enjoying the excited little gasps, smiles and widened eyes to the point where he found himself sharing a plate of oysters with the other man despite his own dislike for the food, only because he had told him he wondered what they tasted like. Still, the looks of intrigue and disgust as John stared down at one of the shells as he held it in his hand, considering whether what he was holding was actually edible or not, was entertaining enough to make up for it.

“If this is my first taste of France, I am not sure I have made the right choice in coming with you,” John muttered as he wiggled the shell around some more, before finally putting it to his lips and cocking it back to swallow it down. Much to his surprise, however, and Paul’s most certainly, his face lit up as he put the empty shell back down and took another one without a second thought, causing Paul to chuckle. He took a shell as well and forced himself to not think about the texture as he too swallowed one down, thinking it tasted rather well, except for the slimy and rubbery feel of it in his mouth. It was something he had never been able to get used to, but he would be fine as long as he had enough wine to wash it down with.

They spoke in hushed voices while they ate, not wanting to disturb the other guests with their conversations about common interests such as music, which later evolved into a discussion on art and poetry, leaving Paul – although he was embarrassed to admit it – astounded by his speech, which was not only intelligent, but even philosophical at times, revealing him to be much smarter than he had thought he was as he spoke with love of one of his favourite poets, Percy Shelley. On second thought, it was not an unexpected choice.

“He was rebellious, Paul. Ungovernable and revolutionary, never avoiding confrontation and always seeking it out, but never meeting it with violence. Instead he wrote: poems, pamphlets, essays, anything to open the minds of people. He knew what was wrong with this world, how we treat each other, how we treat animals, how wrong authority is, not to mention our oppressive rulers, especially then, profiting from the incapability of King George and this hopeless country. _‘Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know, but leech-like to their fainting country cling, till they drop, blind in blood._ ’ His words are angry. Passionate, definitely, but mostly angry. Unforgiving to whoever dares to read them,” he said, smiling broadly as he spoke, almond eyes shimmering with passionate excitement and veneration for the poet from behind his glasses, but with an anger in his own voice that told Paul just how strongly he felt about the issues he raised in his works, repeating Shelley’s words as if they were his own.

“That is what I would love to do,” John continued with the same passion, that, Paul noticed, was entangling him, his fervent words bringing some of his passion over into his own mind as he listened to him talk. “I want to make people think and wake them up from their slumbering states. To change things.”

“By writing poems?”

“Anything! Poems, music, paintings, anything. Shelley himself said _‘poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.’_ The same goes for other artists, as well, don’t you agree? Composers with their music, artists with their paintings, poets with their words.” He was still smiling brightly as he looked at the man opposite him with a strange type of hunger in his gaze, eager to hear his views in the hope to meet someone with a likewise mind. His soft hair was ruffled and curled up before his eyes, and Paul only noticed now the touch of red that lay in it, shimmering as the light of the candles and gas lighting in the room hit it. His usually fair cheeks were flushed from excitement and Paul felt the need to sit back in his chair and create some distance between them as he found himself taken in by this intelligent and beautiful man, but still, even as he moved away, he could not look away from his eyes, small and finely shaped unlike his own, but with a softness in them that seemed so much unlike his talk of revolution.

“How do you feel about other poets then? Like, say Keats, for example?” Paul asked after a moment of silence as he sipped from his wine, frowning with intrigue as John for a second only grinned at his question, as if he had already hoped he would ask it.

“A rebel not in form but content, and thus all the more insidious,” he said and when Paul did not respond, he explained. “His verses are pretty, carefully crafted and shaped according to tradition to create an enchanting beauty. He lures you in with pretty words and fine rhymes, and guides you through it, allowing you to sway on his metre and simply enjoy it for how it is. He appeals to people who are in want for beauty, people who do not want Shelley’s biting, disagreeing words, and then he takes them by surprise with his intentions, his content, which is rebellious in its own right. Besides, he writes about those things that really matter: love and sex. He is _sensual_.”

“Is that your Byron speaking?” Paul asked with a chuckle, feeling his temperature rise at hearing him speak so plainly about such subjects, which until now he had only ever spoken about with lovers behind locked doors in the dark, like an innermost secret no one was allowed to hear about. To hear John talk about it with such ease, it was strange, but he was unsure if he disliked it as he was supposed to.

“To a certain point,” John replied with a chuckle of his own and ate another piece of bread, which he helped down with the generous sip from his own wine, finishing it. “Keats was a man in love, as only a man in love could permit himself such tender beauties.”

“So you would do it too, then? Go against our kings and queens, against our parliament and lords? Against anyone in power who does not use it as they should in the interest of the country and its people?” Paul asked, intrigued by the idea, feeling an opposition arise inside him that on the one hand had fallen in love with everything John had said in the last half hour, and at the same time felt great fear of what that would mean, rebellion. Revolution. He swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat as John nodded in response to his question, placing his empty glass back down on the table as he glanced up at Paul through his lashes, a calculating look in his eyes.

“I would. I do. Against anyone who abuses his power towards anyone, I would rage a war of words. After all, if poets won’t do it, then who will?”

“And you consider yourself a poet, then?”

“If I find the right muse, then perhaps I might,” John replied with a wink and Paul laughed again, before wiping his mouth with a napkin and standing up from his seat.  

“Well, Mr. Poet, in line with your lyrical speeches, I think it is time for us to go if we do not want to be late. I have managed to arrange two tickets for the theatre this evening and having listened to your odes about your poetic heroes, I now know for certain you will enjoy it,” he said as he motioned one of the waiters to come over to pay and slid his coat back on, watching from the corner of his eye as John did the same, an excited smile on his face as he repeated the word to himself.

“The theatre…”

***

John stared out of the coach as they drove further through the streets of London, accompanied by other coaches as well as many people walking on pavement, many of whom, John could hear from the small snippets of conversation he caught as they drove past them, seemed to be heading to the theatre as well. This time Paul was sitting next of him, his eyes closed and doing nothing for a moment as their thighs and shoulders occasionally rubbed together due to the wobbling of the coach, and with every touch, however slight it was, John felt his cheeks heat up in response, his attraction – because he had now finally realised that was what he was feeling towards the other man and that pretending he did not was foolish – only having grown over the last couple of days now they were spending so much of their time together.

Especially during dinner he had noticed, even more so than before, how beautiful Paul really was, thinking him even more striking as he allowed his guard down and showed him all his reactions, mannerisms and emotions without worrying about what was expected of him and what others would think if he did anything that did not agree with their expectations. Every smile he had offered him, had grown more and more genuine as the minutes had passed by, soon reaching all the way to his eyes which shone as he laughed or chuckled, the corners curling up and his cheeks rounding in a most adorable, yet handsome way. The difference between his genuine and his charming, calculated smiles was all the more obvious to him now, and he hoped he would see those genuine ones more often, the sight of it filling him with immediate joy as well, making it all the more attractive. But then again, who was he to ask such things of the other man? After all, he was nothing; a mere artist, if that, lucky enough to keep him company for now as he was offered the chance to showcase his work. He was not interesting, not beautiful, nor did he have any other qualities that would appeal to a man like Paul and that would make him think of him as anything other than his portraitist.

It was a mere ten-minute’s drive to the theatre, and once John caught sight of it, he nudged Paul’s side with his elbow, and pointed at it, excited for the show that awaited him, never having gone to the theatre before. Not soon after the coach halted once more to let them out.

“Thank you, Miles,” John could hear Paul say behind him once they were outside, but he sounded far away as he instead looked up at the theatre building and attempted to take it all in, his view being slightly obscured by the many people who were walking in and out of it, often moving in groups or couples of two. He barely had time to look, as before he knew it, Paul had taken him by his arm and was guiding them inside, where even more people were standing and talking, waiting for the doors to open so they could take their seats. As if by perfect timing, the doors – four massive ones with stained glass at the back of the reception hall - opened just as they stepped inside, allowing the hall the empty out a little, so people could more easily stand and walk around, or even sit down on one of the sofas that had been placed along the walls but had been hidden from view by the many visitors. John, who had felt inclined to follow the masses through said doors, jerked in surprise as Paul grabbed him by the shoulder and nodded at two smaller doors at the side of the room where a couple, six or seven at the most, of wealthier-looking people stood, and who they soon joined.

“Where are in the private boxes beside the balconies,” Paul whispered into his ear once he had guided them away from the cacophonous chatter and laughter of the many lower and middle class visitors, who were slowly making their way through the doors. Not long after, the side doors were opened as well and the last few people slowly made their way inside as well. John and Paul followed closely behind, and John took in the beauty of the place as they were guided through more halls and corridors and up a couple of steps until they finally reached the door that John supposed lead through to their box, and waited patiently as Paul checked the door number with something he had written down on a very small piece of paper. Once he was satisfied and certain they had the right door, he put the piece of paper back in the pocket of his trousers and opened the door before beckoning John to step in first, which he gladly did, only to gasp as he stepped into one of the upper boxes, which was richly decorated with golden ornaments, pillars, and soft gas lighting, and even the railings were painted and further decorated with golden flowers. Above them hung deep scarlet curtains that were draped around and could be drawn if so wished. There were two chairs in the middle of the small room, on both of which lay a sheet of paper with information about the play and a pair of binoculars.

“So, what do you think? Impressive, isn’t it?” Paul asked as he stepped in after him and closed the door behind him. John could only nod in response and carefully picked up his binoculars before he sat down in the unexpectedly comfortable seat and leaned forward to look out onto the stage and the seats below, watching as people sat in their own seats, talking excitedly as they waited for the play to begin.

“I have always loved the theatre,” Paul said as he did the same and stared down at the stage where the curtain hid the actors, the decor and the props from view. “My parents used to take me and Michael when we were younger. My father never cared too much for it, neither did my brother, but my mother and I loved every part of it. When I was old enough I always used to hang around by the stage doors, waiting until someone took pity on me and allowed me in for a tour and to watch them rehearse. Soon, everyone knew me and I was always welcome to come in and watch or help with some things if I wanted. My parents never knew about it of course.”

John hummed in response as he continued to take in the beauty and wonder of the place, never having thought it would be like this or that he would be so taken in by it, and he could all too well imagine Paul’s obsession with it when he had been younger, not being able to imagine how he himself would have reacted to such a place – and he had not even seen the play yet.

Finally the lights dimmed and the curtains were raised, revealing two actors, a man and a woman, dressed in the most gorgeous costumes and John could only stare as the man began to speak, his voice powerful and melodious as he followed the rhyme and metre of the words he was reciting with such skill that John felt goosebumps appear on his arms. He was a handsome young man, blonde and lean, with delicate skin and freckles on his cheeks. He had high cheekbones, and a strong jaw, yet there was something about him that made him appear slightly more feminine, and as he turned to the two of them directly, he noticed the slenderness of his neck and the fullness of his lips, which, combined with the elegance with which he was moving over the stage, caused exactly that more lady-esque quality. It was that moment too, that John realised he had to be the lead; Whitfield according to the information sheet. Apparently, he had started as a child actor with a company in Liverpool and had grown up to be one of the most talented and critically acclaimed actors of the 19th century so far and was almost religiously devoted to his career.

“For about four years I was there as often as I could, sneaking off when Father or Mother was not looking and doing chores for Michael so he would not tell on me. Some of the boys – the younger actors – tried to teach me how to act, but soon it became clear I would never be a decent actor, never mind a good one, but I did not mind. My father was not happy when he found out where I spend all of my free time, of course. It would not do for a boy from a family like ours to spend his time in the company of mere actors,” Paul continued in a soft whisper, soft enough for John to ignore if he wanted to, but for some reason, he found himself intrigued by Paul’s words. There was a softness to them, that John had not heard from him before. As the scene between the two lovers ended and the man was left alone on stage to do a monologue before he was joined by some other male actors, John took a moment to glance at the man beside him, and found him leaning on his railing, his head resting in his arms as he stared down at the stage with a blush on his cheeks, a tenderness in his eyes, and a very slight smallish grin that rested on his plump lips.

Curious about what had caused such a reaction from the otherwise almost stoic gentleman, John followed the line of his gaze and frowned as it landed on the lead actor, who was having a fervent quarrel with another actor, lamenting his inability to take his one love as his bride for she would be marrying someone else in a fortnight. For a moment he frowned, uncertain why he was watching him so intently, but when he glanced back at Paul and caught him sighing, his body tensed up and he was roughly drawn away from the magical environment that was surrounding them, realisation dawning upon him.

“It is always easy to fall in love with an actor when what he says was written to make every single person in the audience swoon, be they male or female,” Paul whispered, his voice even softer than before, which made John wonder if he had meant for him to hear it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two quotes from Percy Shelley are respectively from “England in 1819″ (lines 4-6) and “Defence of Poetry”. 
> 
> The assassination of Prime Minister Spencer Perceval is something that actually took place in 1812, and he was the only British Prime Minister to have ever been assassinated, so I figured it would have a big impact on people back then.
> 
> Also, things are finally happening!! :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As people who follow me on tumblr (same username) will probably already know, this chapter is LONG, like, the length of two chapters. So... enjoy! 
> 
> Also, Paul speaks French in this chapter (can you imagine Paul speaking fluent French? I would die), so I have put the original sentences in the notes at the end of the chapter, so you can look it up if you don't know what it means. And thanks chut-je-dors for translating these sentences for me on such short notice! If there are any mistakes, don't blame her. She did her best and had to do this very quickly. 
> 
> The next chapter will be later as well, as I am going to need longer for that one as well now, seeing as this one turned out to be so lengthy. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you are going to love the chapter. I am really excited about it and can't wait to hear what you guys think of it. Love you all! <3

Attraction was an odd feeling to be experiencing, John thought as the coach drove through the French countryside, over both stone and dirt roads, through villages and alongside fields of wheat and corn with far off farmhouses in the distance, some of it harvested, some of it still standing tall as it enjoyed the warmth of the sun. Paul, although he had always been handsome in John’s eyes, looked even more lovely to him now as he sat opposite him, eyes closed, long lashes grazing his cheeks, tempting lips slightly parted, and his face calm as he laid with his head resting against the side of the coach, vast asleep, his chest rising and falling at a calm, soothing rhythm, like the coming and going of the sea on a pleasant spring day in the beginning month of June. Ever since he had admitted his feelings to himself, the sight and thought of him filled his stomach with an almost constant feeling of weakness, and his heart with a desperate need to touch, to trace the man’s pink lips with his fingertips and to feel them tremble as he kissed them, to feel the pulsation of his heart and the warmth of his skin against his own, to hear him laugh and whisper his name, be it pleading or in happiness.

But at the same time, he felt nauseous too, with fear of rejection, fear of not being good enough, fear of losing the one he hadn’t even had, or even the fear of being disappointed if something were to happen between them, that if they would touch, his feelings would fall flat, leaving him disillusioned and out of love. Not that he felt there was any chance of the latter option coming true. The strange thing was, although the thought that he could never have him was a disappointing one, it did not crush him as much as he had thought it ought to, perhaps because he had always known, even before he had admitted his feelings to himself, that there was no chance of anything happening in that respect, as Paul was not only too far out of his league, and would therefore never even so much as consider the possibility, their circumstances made it utterly impossible for them to be together, even if, as he had realised, Paul did fancy men.

He had not said a word to him about the revelation he had had at the theatre a couple of days ago, being both afraid of his reaction towards him questioning him about such things, and uncertain whether it was his place to say anything of it in the first place. It was a private matter after all, and not something he had any business of knowing, considering he was his portraitist, an aspiring artist who had been lucky enough to be brought along to an exhibition in Paris to show off his work to some of the most important figures in the business, not a sexual, let alone romantic, interest of his, whom he was attempting to woo. Perhaps, he thought, some things were better left unsaid.

Sighing, he looked down at the sketchbook in his hand and considered his work as he shot the occasional glance at his model to see what needed changing, adapting, or refining, and hurried to continue his sketch of the younger man, needing to work quickly if he wanted to have it finished before he would awake. It was a struggle to draw in a driving carriage, the wobbling as they took turns and drove over uneven roads, up and down hills, and through puddles, making it difficult for him to keep a steady hand, occasionally causing his pencil to slip on the paper or his lines to come out too wiggly, but he did not mind too much, the unsteadiness giving the drawing an unique look he had not considered before.

It was not much longer, though, when John noticed Paul stirring and slowly awakening from his afternoon slumber, his gaze first unfocused and hazy as he opened his eyes, until they rested on him for a moment and his lips curled up in a little smile that caused John’s heart to make a funny little jump. Groaning, the younger man stretched himself out, tightening his muscles for little longer than a second or two, before relaxing them again and curling back up where he was still half lying down with his side against the carriage, looking comfortable and at ease as he suppressed a yawn and closed his eyes for a moment before they found John’s again.

“How long was I gone for?” he asked, his voice croaky from sleep, and it took John a few seconds before he realised Paul had asked him something and produced a cheap pocket watch from his waistcoat.

“Not long,” he said, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose to see his watch better as he glanced down at it, “about an hour and a half, perhaps a little less.” The other man hummed in acknowledgement and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before sitting up and glancing out of the small window in the carriage door.

“We’re nearing Paris, if I am not mistaken. It should only be about another half hour or so,” he said and this time it was John’s turn to hum in response, his words getting lost in his throat as he continued to stare at him, being only able to look away and down into his sketchbook when Paul turned his eyes back on him. “What were you drawing?”

“E-excuse me?” he stammered, and cleared his throat as he forced himself to meet Paul’s eyes to see him nodding towards the notebook and pencil in his hand.

“You. What were you drawing?” he asked and John fought the urge to blush, as he glanced down at it, struggling to come up with what to say, as, for some reason, telling him the truth seemed too revealing, even though he suspected he would not mind it.

“Oh… The landscape,” he lied after a moment of silence, which had been a tad too long to be convincing, and motioned to the view of the golden grain fields underneath the clear blue with white dotted sky, that was visible through the little window, to illustrate, and was relieved when Paul did actually look outside for a moment, allowing him enough time to gather himself and stop his blushing and stammering.

“It is a stunning view, isn’t it?” Paul said, sighing as he took in the country’s beauty, and John immediately agreed, though he was not even sure himself if he was talking about the fields or Paul. “Can I see it?”

“I don’t like showing any of my unfinished works to people,” he said, not meeting the other man’s eye when he looked back at him and staring instead out of the window where more villages with houses and shops cropped up into view, telling him they were coming closer to the outskirts of Paris.

“You showed me all the different versions of my portrait before those were finished, and that didn’t seem to be an issue,” Paul remarked, causing an involuntary grin to appear on John’s lips despite himself as he glanced back at him.

“You were the exception, rather than the rule, I’m afraid.”

“Was I? That’s a shame,” Paul said and he held John’s eyes for a moment before continuing, “You can show me once it is finished, then. You are going to love Paris, though. I know it. The city is gorgeous, more so even than London, and the language is simply bewitching, especially when it falls from the lips of a pretty French girl, and there are plenty of those around, I can assure you,” said Paul with a wink and John forced himself to smile at the mention of pretty girls, knowing now that neither he nor Paul had any interest in those, and that he was most likely talking about a pretty boy instead, which inevitably caused John to wonder what Paul sounded like when he spoke French, which only allowed his thoughts to drift further into directions he did not want them to go, most of those being too inappropriate or ridiculous to even be imagining.

“I am looking forward to it,” was the answer he eventually gave, and went back to drawing, attempting to continue it from memory instead now he had lost his model, who sat looking out of the window, allowing John to sneak cursory glances at him for small details while the man himself remained unaware of it.

***

Paris, John realised as they drove through the city, was even more beautiful than how Paul had described it. The whole atmosphere felt so different from that of England: freer, warmer, with softer colours, and with beautiful buildings of sand-coloured stone, that lined the streets, with tall sash-windows and quaint red or blue coloured tiled roofs. Shops were situated below with richly decorated shopfronts to beckon customers in, and outside stalls were filled with colourful flowers, fresh fruits or loaf of bread that were still warm from the oven, spreading the smells of it through the streets, where music could be heard coming from the cafés that were placed between it all.  

The streets, lined with tall trees and full bushes, were busy with people, who were either walking or being driven around in carriages or were sitting outside the cafés on the terraces, sipping their coffee or drinking their tea, dressed in a fashion that was yet unknown to England, with tight-laced bodices, opulent yet pretty hats with flowers or lace or ribbons of various shapes, sizes and colours, and puffy dresses, once again of various light colours, leading down to rest about half an inch above the ground so it would not get dirty. The men’s fashion, too, was different: though they wore simple suits of colours that did not vary much with the English equivalent, they were tailored differently to accentuate the broadness of their shoulders and the slimness of their waists, while making their legs appear longer, giving John hints of the suits Paul had shown to wear on occasion. Even the clothes of the poorer people was different from that of the English, the colours being less bleak and dark, with deeper colours, and the skirts laced tighter around the waist, thus accentuating their natural figures in a way that John was certain some people would call obscene if anyone in England would dress that way. He would have liked it for that alone, if it wasn’t for the fact that the fashion actually looked appealing to him, and he could not help but think of how Cynthia would look in a dress like that. She had the figure for it.

They stopped in front of one of the prettiest buildings on the side street they had turned onto, and John felt glad for the calmness that surrounded them as he took the hand Paul offered him to help him out of the coach with a thankful smile and fought the blush that was threatening to appear on his cheeks as he made his ways down the small set of stairs, feeling rather like a young girl with a crush from the courteous way Paul was treating him, the calmness offering him at least the illusion of some privacy. He muttered a thank you as he turned away from Paul and looked up at the grand building instead, hoping it would help his body temperature to lower itself again, and was struck by the beauty of it, with its sandy stone facade, the tall windows, and the iron railings along the balconies that seemed to function more as a decoration than a true balcony, the amount of space it offered being far too small for a person to stand. Some of the windows were open, and John could see the curtains swaying in the wind in a way that almost seemed to be inviting, though he knew it was only his imagination.

He jumped a little as he felt Paul’s hand on his arm, and turned around in surprise, only to have Paul push his suitcase into his arms as he told him to follow him inside, to which John obeyed without question. They arrived into some kind of reception hall with clear marble flooring, light-coloured wood panelling and fancy flowery wallpapers. Cream-coloured sofas were placed along the walls with traditional art works hanging above them, salon tables between them, and flowerpots besides them in the corners, while a glass chandelier hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room that would light it up in the evenings, but had not been lit now. They approached the desk at the end of the room, behind which a clerk stood, who greeted them - but mostly Paul - as soon he saw them coming in with a warm smile. Behind him hung a rack of keys with numbers above them, which most  likely corresponded with the number of the room that they would open.  

“Ah! Monsieur McCartney! Je suis tellement content de vous revoir. J’espère que votre voyage était bien agréable,” the clerk said once they were close enough and offered Paul his hand to shake, which the other man immediately accepted as he answered him in fluent French, which did more to John than he thought would be wise to admit.

“Oui, merci. Pourtant, je suis ravi d’être encore ici. Je suppose que vous avez reçu mon lettre?”

“Ah, oui, monsieur. Tout est bien arrangé pour vous et votre invité.”

“Et vous n’avez rien dit à mon père, comme j’ai demandé?”

“Non, bien sûr que non, monsieur. Tout à été fait selon vos désirs. Pourrais-je vous encore aider?”

John, although the sound of Paul speaking French was unlike anything he had heard before - bewitching perhaps, as Paul had said - he soon found his mind drifting away, understanding hardly a word of what the two men were saying, except for Paul’s mention of his father, and took to glancing around the room instead, his eyes resting for a moment on two men who were sitting on the couches, reading a book as they smoked their pipe, apparently thinking neither him nor Paul interesting enough to look at, being fully engrossed in whatever it was they were reading. He tried to read the covers, but one was in French and the other in German, and thus made little sense to John. He wished he could speak multiple languages, like Paul could, but his education had not offered him much in that respect, though he knew he partly had himself to blame for that. He found it odd, though, to find himself in all these upper class places with its upper class people, and although on the one hand it was exciting to be part of it for once, it unnerved him too, everything he saw and heard making it all the more clear to John that he did not belong here and was, in fact, intruding. This was Paul’s world, and he doubted he could ever be part of it. How could he, if he could not even speak or read French or German? His Latin wasn’t very good either.

“John? Are you coming?” Paul said and jangled a key in front of his eyes, drawing him away from his thoughts that were quickly becoming more and more melancholy, and cheering him up once more with a small smile, though John doubted he was even aware of it. He nodded, took a hold of his suitcase and offered the clerk a polite nod, before following Paul into a hallway that lead through to another hall with a large stone set of stairs that curled upwards around a metal, rickety-looking elevator, that looked even more untrustworthy than Aunt Mimi’s smile, which John had not thought to be possible. To his horror, Paul opened the elevator door and motioned John inside after him. He was unsure how he actually got into the elevator but as Paul closed the door again and pressed the button of the highest floor, making the elevator come into motion with more groaning and screeching than John thought to be okay, he wished for the first time he had remained in England. He let out a sigh of relief once the elevator came to a halt again and as soon as Paul had the door open, he pushed past him and stepped outside with his suitcase as fast as he could, causing Paul to snicker behind him, apparently amused by his very rational fear of immediate death.

They found themselves on a smallish landing with only one double door that John supposed would lead into the McCartney’s family suite. He waited patiently and watched as Paul produced a small key from the pocket of his coat and unlocked the door for them, pausing for a moment to look back at John before pushing it open and revealing a luxurious suite that opened up into a spacious and richly decorated room with dark timber flooring and white-painted ornamental mouldings against impeccable cream walls, combined with some light wooden panelling that gave the room a more cosy feel. It was light and airy, with big windows on the wall opposite the door, allowing plenty of natural light to pour in while also keeping the air fresh. There was an enormous French fireplace at one side of the room, surrounded by a couple of puffy light green chairs and sofas of various patterns with a salon table in the middle and a chandelier above it. On the other side stood two tall bookshelves that reached from the ground all the way up to the ceiling, with two more armchairs before it with a reading lamp in between. It was a beautiful room and John could not hold back the gasp that escaped his throat at the sight of it.

“Come on. I’ll show you your bedroom,” Paul said as he closed the door behind them and moved past the other man as he slid off his coat and laid it over the back of the one of the sofas, before beckoning John to follow him into another corridor of the same colour-scheme onto which a couple of doors were situated, the last of which Paul opened by turning the golden-coloured door knob, though John doubted it was actual gold, judging from the wear on it. He watched curiously as Paul opened the door for him and allowed him to step inside, only to let out another gasp.

“Paul… this is…” he could not even finish that sentence, not having expected this when he had agreed to come with Paul to Paris – granted, he had not expected much of what had happened over the last couple of days, in so far as that he could hardly remember what it actually was he had expected when he had agreed, though he was certain it had not been this – and not knowing what to say in return. The bedroom was stunning. It was spacious, with an almost white, wooden, queen-sized bed with a cream-coloured headboard of soft satin that appeared to be filled with feathers,  mad up with fluffy pink pillows and thick covers that seemed to be begging John to let himself collapse on top of it to melt into it, not to come out again for a long time after. The walls were of warmish green with light panelling of the same colour as the bed and the floor was once again made out of wood. Light flooded in through the two large windows, before which pink curtains were draped, and there were two large closets and a vanity with a large standing mirror beside it. Before the bed stood a little sofa with, as John only now noticed, a small stack of folded clothes placed on it.

“I am glad you like it. I mean, it is only the guest room,” Paul muttered as he walked over to the windows to close them, while John made his way across the room to the stack of clothes, curious to see what it was.

“It is gorgeous, Paul. How could I possibly say otherwise?”

“If you find this impressive you should see my room,” Paul replied, a blush creeping up on his cheeks as he realised how that sounded, but John barely heard it, let alone saw it, as he picked up the stack of clothes, only to find it was a suit, consisting of a pair of black trousers, a white shirt, a grey waistcoat, and a black blazer, complete with a satin scarf, tailored in the same way as he had seen on those men in the streets, and presumably, from what he could see, in his size. He turned to Paul with a frown, unsure what to make of it.

“Oh,” Paul said with a nervous chuckle as he walked over to the other man and took the suit from him, straightening it out with his hands, before holding it up before him as he looked him up and down to evaluate the look. “I had this made for you. I thought you might like it. Your master was kind enough to give me your measurements. It seems a perfect fit.”

“You didn’t have to-“ John started, but Paul was quick to interrupt him, pulling the suit away from him and lying it out on the bed, where he began to adjust a couple of small things as he spoke.

“No. I did have to. We are going to The Salon in about an hour or two, which is, in case you were unaware, one of the most prestigious galleries in Europe, so, if you want to go there to show your artwork, you shall have to look the part.”

“I have brought a suit of my own,” John muttered as he watched Paul work, silently impressed by the swiftness with which his clever fingers worked, pulling and folding the material in different areas until he had created the perfect look. Once finished, he glanced up at John as he shook his head.

“Your suit is nothing compared to this, and I cannot have my companion look scruffy, can I? Besides, it was no trouble,” he said and John did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing and only stared at the suit that laid spread out for him on his bed. It was a stunning suit, he had to admit.

“Is that what I am then? Your companion?” he muttered, still staring down at the suit, and Paul nodded in return.

“For now,” he said, and John felt his throat tighten as his mind filled with all kinds of thoughts at that, most of which he struggled to push away, liking them a tad bit too much despite knowing that holding onto such hope was foolish.

“Now,” Paul said after a brief moment of silence as he cleared his throat, catching John’s eye again, “the opening will start at five, and I do not want to be there late, so we have a little less than two hours to get ready. The bathroom is opposite your room, which you can use whenever you want - I have my own. I have asked the reception to bring us some bread, cheese and wine for our delayed lunch, which I will have served in the living room, so you can eat something there if you feel hungry. Take some time to relax and be ready in time to leave. I am going to have a bath and change. I’ll see you in about two hours.” John nodded in return and Paul looked around the room, as if to think of anything else to say, before he offered John one last nod and turned back to the door to leave, only to halt in his steps once he had pulled the door open.

“Oh, and John?” he asked as he glanced back at him. “Please, wear the suit.”

***

John could not stop plucking at as his new suit as he and Paul stood in line together before the entrance of The Salon, watching the other people to pass the time as he waited to be lead inside, the queue moving slowly as only one or two people were allowed in at the same time – to regulate the flow and to allow people to spread out once they were inside, Paul had explained, but John thought it rather ridiculous. It was cold outside, and the overcoat he was wearing, although fashionable, provided him only so much heat, forcing him thus to stand close to the other man, hoping to catch some heat from him without it being too inappropriate. The men and women around them were chatting in French, and so far he had heard no one else speak English, which made him worry for the rest of the evening, being uncertain how he would entertain himself if he had no one to talk to except Paul, who would have plenty of others things to occupy himself with, he knew. Still, he tried not to let his anxieties show and instead fumbled with his glasses as he saw two young women glance into their direction, making him feel even more exposed in his tight-fitting clothes, knowing he did not look half as good as Paul did in something of this cut.

The suit was nice, though, and felt surprisingly comfortable around his skin, the way it was tailored to his form allowing enough room for him to move around in, and although it suited Paul better, he had liked the way it shaped his body as he had studied himself in the mirror. Paul, on the other hand, had not said a word about it yet, having only looked him up and down when they had met up in the living area before leaving without a word or even an appreciative noise or nod, leaving John to wonder if there was something wrong with it.

Finally, and much to John’s relief, they were next in line and he could sneak a glance into the building as the man and woman who had stood in line before them walked inside, giving him a brief impression of the gigantic room in both surface area and height, that, as far as John could tell from where he stood, was filled with people and artworks, the latter of which hung all over the walls, covering them completely like a mosaic of paintings of various sizes and colours, making it look all the more impressive, and the people even smaller, giving John a fair estimate of the size of it. He took a deep breath as Paul finished his little conversation with the porter and took him by the arm to lead him inside. He must have noticed his nerves, for as soon as they were inside, he drew him to a more quieter side of the room and allowed him to take it all in for a moment as he watched him with an encouraging smile, avoiding everyone who so much as looked in their direction in order not to overwhelm the other man.

“I know it is a lot to take in,” he whispered to him as they continued to walk up and down the more quieter sides of the room, “Just relax and let it wash over you. You are supposed to enjoy yourself, remember? Take a look at the artworks and enjoy the champagne. If I need to introduce you to anyone, you can let me do the talking. Most people here don’t actually speak English, you see? I will stay close to you.”

John nodded in response and took a deep breath as he started to calm down a little, his fear ebbing away at his companion’s reassurance, and finally he forced himself to smile at the younger man. “I don’t particularly fancy crowds,” he admitted, to which Paul replied with a chuckle that sounded more pitying than one of ridicule.

“You will get used to it,” he said, and before John could say anything in response, they were approached by another man and a woman, who looked about as interested in her surroundings as he had felt during his arithmetic classes in school, which was a shame, as he could see she was rather pretty, especially for her age, which had to be nearing the forty mark, although her looks already told John there was not much substance about her.

“Mr. McCartney?” the man beside her spoke with a strong French accent. “What a surprise. I did not know you would attend this evening. I heard, you were staying in England because of your brother’s engagement.” John watched Paul as the latter turned around to him, his face switching with ease to a more amicable look, meeting him with a warm open smile and twinkling eyes as he offered the man his hand.

“Change of plans at the last minute, Mr. Travere. Mrs. Travere, how lovely to see you again. Er, this is Mr. Lennon, my companion this evening. He is an aspiring artist himself, so I thought it be good to bring him along,” Paul said, and John forced another smile as he shook the man’s hand and kissed the woman’s, hoping to leave a good impression for Paul’s sake.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” John said and the man looked him up and down for a moment, before turning back to Paul, his expression unreadable.

“How good of you. The collection is magnificent, of course, though not as good as last year’s, is it, my dear? Such a shame. Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Deniau is most eager to speak with you. Something about your father it seems. Is he well?”

“Very well, thank you. Now, if you would excuse me, Mr. Lennon and I are going to get a glass of champagne before I speak with Deniau. I think I know what he wants to discuss. Enjoy your evenings,” Paul said and with that, he took John by the arm again and began to drag him towards the other end of the room, allowing him to have a good look around, being most impressed by the various works of art that were covering every inch of the walls as people stared up at it, lumping together in multiple groups as they went around the room, discussing it, while holding their more private conversations at the same time. Servants were walking around with trays of food and glasses of champagne and John was grateful when they were both offered a glass as well, and muttered a shy ‘merci’ at the young man, who nodded in return before walking off again.

“I am sorry for dragging you around like this,” Paul said with a sigh before taking a sip from his glass, “Mr. Travere and his wife were simply not the people I wanted to spend this evening talking to.”

“His wife seems like a treat,” John replied, glancing at the other man for a reaction, and smiling as Paul started to chuckle at that.

“Oh, she is, believe me. She is an absolute joy to be around. Not that her husband is much better. For a moment I thought he would try to have you be kicked out. Not that he would have any good validation for that; The Salon is not just for the rich, although he would wish that were the case,” he told John with a wink, who chuckled in return as he glanced around the room, watching the people who stood together, talking, and felt his throat tighten as he noticed one tiny little detail.

“Shouldn’t you be here with a woman?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on another group of people as to avoid Paul’s eye, his voice wavering too much even for his own liking. “Everyone seems to have a date with them except you.”

Paul considered the question for a moment, his eyes travelling around the room to see for himself, before his eyes landed on John. “The girl I usually take with me had other things to do. Besides, I told you I wanted you to keep me company, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes, but you could have asked someone else, couldn’t you?“

Paul studied him for a moment, as if considering what to say, before sighing and shaking his head.

“It was best I wouldn’t. Like I said, I often bring a friend of mine along, and the less rumours I create, the better. Now, come on, we are here for the art, so let’s actually have a look around, shall we? I need some more time before I meet up with Mr. Deniau. He is rather a nice gentleman, though very opinionated and bold, but he does not know when to stop talking. We may need some more champagne before we are able to deal with him. Come on, the sun-room will be quieter.”

“We?”

“Oh, yes. He is the person I wanted to show your work to,” Paul answered and John swallowed at the prospect, his bad with his sketchbook, which he had slung over his shoulder, feeling as if it had gained two pounds, as he followed Paul across the room and to a rather grand wooden door that was only partly opened, giving people room to move from chamber to chamber, while still allowing for the smallest possible amount of space to be lost.

As Paul had expected, the sun-room was quieter and John and Paul spent most of their evening together, discussing the art they saw as they went around the room statue by statue, painting by painting, being left mostly undisturbed as they drank their champagne and took some food from the trays that went around the room to enjoy. John liked this the most so far, going through the artworks and discussing them with Paul, defending his own views while still allowing for Paul’s perspectives to alter his own, resulting in calm but philosophical discussions on various subjects that opened John’s mind not only on those subjects, but on the other man as well, realising all the more where he was coming from and that they had more in common than he had first supposed. It even seemed, though of course John could not be certain, Paul was actually pleasantly surprised by the level of their conversation as well and was reluctant to stop it in favour of his own obligations.

Yet, after about an hour or two, some other people came over to them and spoke with Paul about all kinds of things that John could not understand, and in the end, he had needed to break himself free from him for a moment to deal with some business, thus leaving John alone to look around, a fifth glass of champagne in his hand. At first, he continued analysing the artworks he saw, going back to some about which Paul had opened up some interesting points, but soon, within twenty minutes, John came to the conclusion that it was not the same without him and went back into the main chamber where most people were. He found himself a sofa to sit on – it was one of the few ones out there and felt lucky to have managed to get it – and allowed his gaze to travel through the room, ultimately falling onto Paul who was standing halfway across the room, talking animatedly with a couple of other men, and having therefore, as it seemed, no eye for anyone else, never mind him. Everyone else he saw was either speaking French or German, and once again, John felt rather out of place, being unsure what to do now to pass the time as he waited for Paul to be finished.

At first, he took to people watching, and sat there in silence, sipping his drink as he put his notebook down on his lap to draw and list things as they came up in his mind that could result in a nice poem or could be used for one of his short stories, but not fifteen minutes had passed, or John had started to notice the curious glances some of the younger women were shooting Paul’s way, and how some of them seemed to openly flirt with him as they spoke with him, leaving John with a burn in his stomach that was urging to get out. Then, he tried drawing, making studies of the works surrounding him as not to have to look at people, as he waited and soon enough he had become so engrossed in it, he barely even noticed it when someone came over to shake his hand, thus causing for all the more shock as he looked up to see not only Paul, but Mr. Deniau and two other men looking down at him.

“John? I would like you to meet some acquaintances of mine, Mr. Deniau, Mr. Arpin and Mr. Dittmar.” John swallowed thickly and glanced from Paul to the other three men as he stood up to shake their hands, feeling how his heart began to race in his chest as he greeted them.

“Bonsoir, Messieurs,” he said in his best French and forced himself to smile as Mr. Deniau looked him up and down with a scrutinising gaze.

“Il semble qu’un singe est toujours un singe, même avec des beaux vêtements,” he muttered, and John looked at Paul for any sign of emotion, not having understood what the man had said, but thinking it had not sounded particularly nice. His fears were confirmed when Paul was quick to stand between the two of them, taking over the course of the conversation right away, for which John could not be more grateful, the language barrier making it considerably more difficult for him to stand up for himself, not being able to say anything in return if he did not understand what was being said to him in the first place.

“Vous devriez lui donner une chance. La plupart d’artistes ne sont pas considérés comme ‘appropriés’, mais ça ne réduit pas la valeur de ses œuvres. S’il vous plaît!” Paul said and urged John to get his drawings out, which the older man did right away, handing them to the strange man and biting his lip as he sat back down and waited for the man to say anything, studying his face in the hope his expression might give something away that would tell him what he thought of it. The man considered the sketchbook in his hand for a moment, not seeming very pleased with the way the works were presented to him, and John glanced back at Paul, who shot him a reassuring smile, which this time did little to assuage John’s nerves. He held his breath as the man started flipping through it, humming as he studied the sketches and drawings while the other men leaned over his shoulders to have a look as well, cutting in at times to make some comments on a couple of things, that did not sound altogether negative, which John supposed was a good sign. Paul, on the other hand, did not yet look convinced, his features set with worry as he started playing with his fingers to have something to do.

“En plus,” he continued after a brief moment of silence, in the hope to do some good for his companion, “on peut bien apprendre les manières.” He jumped a little as the man slammed the book close again and lowered his eyes to look at John for a moment, before he turned back to Paul.

“En fait, jusqu’à un certain point c’est possible. Cependant, il y en a ceux qui ne sont pas nées avec le talent artistique. Je suis désolé, monsieur McCartney. Je croyais que vous auriez eu du goût. Moi, j’ai vu des chiens qui font des œuvres supérieures à celles-ci. Dans votre place, je trouverais un autre protégé, si vous avez vraiment besoin d’en avoir un. Peut-être ce chien que je viens de vous mentionner,” Mr. Deniau spat at him as he pressed the sketchbook back into his hands, his face scrunched up with such disdain, as if he had been personally insulted by having so much as glanced at his work, that John could not hold himself back any longer.

“Stuck up cunt,” he hissed, eyes on Paul to see his eyes grow wide as he turned to stare at John, not believing what he had just said, which would have been amusing, had it not been for the fact that, to his horror, Mr. Deniau did the same, and he looked much less amused by his cheek than Paul did, his face white and his hands bawled up into fists as he stared down at him with such rage that John would not be surprised he were to attack him, knowing that any man of a lower class would have done so without thinking about it.

“The nerve…” Mr. Deniau started in English, causing all the colour to drain from John’s face as he realised he had heard exactly what he had said, and he stared up at him as he waited for what would happen next. “How dare you? I hope, Mr. McCartney, you do not plan on bringing this man here more often. I don’t believe my ears. Venez, Messieurs. Ces deux ont assez reçu de notre temps.”

“Mr. Deniau, I’m sure Mr. Lennon-“ Paul started, but the man had made up his mind and raised his hand to motion Paul to stop talking, before turning around and walking away without another word, leaving both men rather stunned behind. As soon as the three men had disappeared into the crowd, however, Paul burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe you said that!” he said, hiding his laughter behind his hand as he shook his head and took a seat beside John on the sofa, grabbing his stomach as he almost doubled over from laughter. “He looked so shocked.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me he spoke English?!” John said, trying to sound angry, but his lips too had already curled up into a smile, and Paul’s laughter made it increasingly more difficult to stifle his own laughter, until he could not hold back any longer, and burst out into laughter as well, causing some of the people who stood closest to them to turn their heads into their direction in annoyance, which only caused them both to laugh even harder.

“Come on,” Paul said after a minute or two longer and tried to catch his breath as he got up and offered John his hand to lift him up onto his feet as well, his cheeks flushed and eyes red with tears from laughter as he bit down his tongue to keep himself from bursting out again. “Let’s go home, shall we? We have caused enough trouble here as it is, and I could use a good night’s sleep, don’t you?” he asked, still chuckling to himself and John nodded as he took Paul’s hand and got up as well, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm down himself down as well, but as soon as their eyes met, both starting giggling again like school girls.

“Alright,” Paul said as he grabbed John by his shoulders and started steering him towards the door, and thought to grab John’s bag and sketchbook before they made their way towards the door, both of which he handed to John to carry. “Let’s go.”

***

The two men were still giggling as they stumbled into the suite, both holding onto the other for balance as Paul kicked the door shut behind them, the alcohol rendering them both slightly tipsy, making it difficult for them to stand on their own two feet, especially when the ordeal with Mr. Deniau was still so fresh in their minds, causing them to start giggling over and over again as soon as either one of the two had calmed down a little. Together, they made their way to one of the sofas before the fireplace and let themselves collapse onto them rather haphazardly with limbs thrown over or hooked around each other, making it difficult for the two of them to untangle themselves. Finally, with some tugging and pulling from both parties, Paul managed to pull himself free from the older man only to topple off onto the floor with a loud thud, causing both of them to laugh once more at his expense, before John took Paul by his hand and hauled him up onto the sofa to lie beside him. Once they were both comfortable, their laughter died down and John felt weariness pull on his body, making it impossible for him to move again. Turning his head, he stared at Paul who laid beside him, a wide smile still on his lip as he stared up at the ceiling, being so deep in thought that he did not even seem to notice it that their thighs were touching – that, or he didn’t care.

“I still can’t believe you called him a stuck up cunt,” he spoke after a moment of silence, turning his head to look at John, who hummed in return as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back and out of his face, suddenly feeling rather hot as he sat there with Paul, feeling how the warmth of his body burned into his own.

“You could have told me he spoke English, at least. How else was I supposed to know he was going to understand me?”

“Oh, so now it is my fault that you have the unseemly habit of running your mouth at the worst possible moments, is it? Oh god, he is going to be furious with me for a long time…” Paul said, chuckling to himself and the two men looked at each other for a moment, until both of them had gone completely silent, the only thing they could hear now being their own breathing and the occasional creaks and groans of the building itself. John found it difficult to look him in the eye, feeling himself get hot under his collar as he watched the beautiful man before him, thinking about how easy it would be to kiss him right there and then, the other man’s alcohol-infused mind having lowered his reflexes to the point that he could, in theory, kiss him right there and then without being pushed away, only to blame it on the alcohol the next morning, but there was something stopping him from doing it, not just his conscience, but something else as well – something that only made him want to kiss him if Paul wanted it to. Sighing, he pulled away from the other man and sat up straight.

“I am going to get something to drink. Do you want anything?” he asked as he got to his feet, surprised at how steady his body was now, the thought about Paul having had a strong sobering effect on him that had lowered his emotional happiness as well. Paul groaned and shook his head as he reached for the scarf around his neck and started pulling it loose, exposing more and more of his long elegant neck as he undid it completely, before unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt as well, revealing the hollow in his throat that John felt the insatiable need to kiss.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Lennon?” he asked with a small grin, and John fought the urge to flush as he shook his head, raising his eyes to the man’s eyes to stop himself from staring at him inappropriately. That, it turned out, was a mistake.

“I do not think I would need to anymore if that was my intention,” he said as he stared into his eyes, unable to look away, even when Paul narrowed his eyes at him, before huffing in reply and shifting his body in a way that filled John’s mind with dirty thoughts so he was lying in a more comfortable position.

“You might be right,” he muttered in reply, but John did not say anything in return, unsure what he had meant by that. In the end, it was Paul who spoke next, “I hope this evening wasn’t too boring for you.”

“No, I enjoyed myself. I haven’t had this much fun since Stuart’s last birthday,” he said and when Paul hummed in return as he glanced around the room, unconvinced, he added, “it was fun with you.”

Paul smiled in return. “I am glad to hear it. Really, I know these openings aren’t fun. It is not what I enjoy about my trips to Paris.”

“What do you enjoy about your trips to Paris?” John asked, causing another small grin to appear on Paul’s lips, and the man considered him for a moment, before shaking his head.

“All in due time, Mr. Lennon,” he said in a tone that was yet unknown to John, causing him to frown in return, but Paul left him with little time to think about it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it is best if I retire for the evening. It has been a long day. I will see you in the morning, John,” he said and with that he got up and started to make his way towards his bedroom, leaving John alone in the room. Eventually, he sighed and walked into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water to quench his thirst, and went to his bedroom as well, agreeing with Paul that they had both earned a good night’s rest.

However, instead of changing into his sleepwear and sliding into bed as he ought to, he took off his blazer, scarf, and waistcoat and unbuttoned his shirt as he went over to one of the windows to open it and let in some fresh air, still feeling rather hot from the moment with Paul on the couch, and he took a couple of sips from his water as he leaned with his arms on the windowsill and looked out over the streets of Paris, watching as people made their way home and dogs and cats ran about chasing either each other or other small animals such as mice. It was still rather warm for the time of year and John closed his eyes for a moment as he enjoyed the breeze running through his hair and over his face and chest, cooling him off without it becoming too cold for him.

It was about thirty minutes later when there was a knock on the door, pulling John away from his thoughts about the previous evening and Paul, as he turned around to stare at the door, unsure why anyone – Paul in this case, as he was the only other person here – would knock on his door at this hour.

“John?” Paul’s singsong voice came from behind the door, soft yet urgent, with a tremble to it that made John frown. “John, are you still awake?” he asked and John put his glass back down on the dresser, before opening the door.

“Paul-“ he started, but before he could say anything more, the words were cut off by the feeling of two firm, soft lips pressing against his own and the warmth of someone’s breath infiltrating his mouth, taking him by surprise. It was only once they were gone that he realised Paul had kissed him.

“Wha-“ he started, but this time he cut himself off, not knowing what to say as he stared at the other man with wide eyes, his brain working hard to catch up with that had just occurred. Paul, Mr. James McCartney’s eldest son, who nearly everyone in town despised one way or another, had _kissed_ him, while wearing nothing more than his trousers and shirt.

“I-I am sorry, I only…” Paul started, but before he could finish his sentence, John had kissed him back, pulling at Paul’s plump lips with his own as he raised his hand and curled it around Paul’s head, his fingers tangling themselves into his silky hair as he pulled him to him, only to moan as he felt Paul kiss back in response, pressing his lips even firmer against John as he grabbed a hold of him with both hands and pushed him backwards into his bedroom, shutting the door with his foot.

“I-Is this okay?” he asked as they broke away to catch their breaths and John found it difficult to say anything in return now he had Paul so close to him, his body pressed against his own and his saliva coating his lips, so instead he nodded and kissed him again, pulling him fully against him as he let out a desperate groan, which Paul answered with one of his own as he slid a hand down his back and grabbed at his arse with a need and want that got John’s mind spinning.

“I need you,” he muttered against his lips, before dragging them down across his jawline, suckling at the skin as his hand massaged his arse, and John could only nod in reply as he let out a shuddering breath. “So tempting you are, with the way you keep looking at me, always watching and studying me as you sit there opposite me behind your stupid easel, always with a pen in your hand, and oh god… the feeling of your hands on my body, hesitant and gentle… I am so stupid for not having done anything about it sooner,” Paul continued and John’s breath caught in his throat at the confession, his mind filling with images of them together in his studio, first painting, then kissing, and then him on his knees with Paul’s cock in his mouth.

“Oh Paul… Want you too. Oh fuck.” He hissed as Paul sank his teeth into the skin of his neck and started nibbling, causing John’s cock to twitch into full hardness in response and before he knew it, his knees hit the side of the bed and he fell down on top of it, only to have Paul crawl into his lap, his legs on either side of his body, as his delicate fingers ran up and down his sides, before they grabbed at the naked flesh of his chest, well-manicured nails scratching at the skin, grazing a nipple, which caused John to thrust up his hips into Paul’s arse as he bit back a moan.

“Kiss me,” Paul said and John could do nothing more but obey at the sound of his voice, already ragged and heated with arousal, and he reached up to tangle his hands into the other’s hair and pulled him to him to capture his mouth with his own, his tongue dipping into his mouth right away, as he thrusted his hips up again. Moaning, Paul kissed back with just as much passion, letting his tongue curl around John’s as he sucked on it, and let his fingers go lower and lower, until he reached the waistband of the other man’s trousers and, without warning, he got to work, undoing it button for button until it was loose enough for him to pull it down along with his underwear, exposing John’s erect cock. The feeling of the cold air against his heated skin, made John groan into Paul’s mouth as he thrusted his hips up again, only to growl as Paul’s clever fingers wrapped themselves around his dick and started pulling at it, earning himself a tiny shout as he broke away to catch his breath.

“You are so beautiful, do you know that,” Paul whispered as he leaned over him, letting his head rest against the pillow next to John’s so he could whisper into his ear as he jerked him off with quick, hash strokes. John flushed at his words, and Paul must have noticed his doubtful response, for he moved his lips to kiss the skin right behind John’s ear as he repeated it to him. “So beautiful,” he said and John felt his cheeks burn up even more as he moved his hands down between him and Paul to undo Paul’s trousers as well, hoping to be able to keep himself from saying any more by giving him some friction as well, but before he could, Paul had grabbed a hold of his wrists and pulled them up above John’s head as he sat up and started to undo his own trousers, letting John watch as he undid button for button, before reaching in to take out his own cock, not wanting to waste any time by undressing fully. John stared down at the organ in Paul’s hand, and licked his lips at the sight of it, red and glistening with precum, wanting to feel it in his own hand, but as soon as he reached down, Paul slapped his hand away and leaned down to kiss him again as he thrusted his hips down into John’s, allowing their erections to rub together as they both let out a moan at the same moment, their voices melting together in a sensual harmony as they rutted together, their tongues entwined in an embrace as John took a hold of Paul’s hand and held it tightly into his own, needing to hold onto something as he felt his orgasm approach.

“I- I’m close,” he gasped, opening his eyes to look straight up into Paul’s, only to feel his cock give another eager twitch in response; he could get lost in those eyes. Paul nodded in agreement at that, his eyes fluttering close, and let his forehead rest against John’s bare shoulder as he whispered he was too, his hip movements speeding up even more as he chased his orgasm, reaching down to grab at John’s naked thigh to part them even further. John, feeling the familiar knot pull tight in his stomach, wrapped his arm around the younger man, moving it under his shirt to feel his naked skin, holding him close as he spread his legs wider to give Paul more room, and whispered small encouraging words into his ear as he concentrated on his pleasure, allowing it to consume him as he thought of nothing for a moment and only enjoyed the sensations and the feeling of Paul’s warm body against his own. Not long after, though, he could feel Paul starting to tremble in his arms as he let out a deep moan and came, his hips jerking forward as he rode it out, his cum oozing over John’s cock, allowing for an even better slide, while the thought of Paul’s spunk dripping onto his cock, tipped John over the edge too, his nails digging into Paul’s back as he held onto him tighter and came too, biting his down his lip to keep himself from crying out.

For a moment, John felt little else than the warmth of Paul’s body against his skin and his hair tickling his chin as he came down from his high, his body still tingling from the after waves of his orgasm as he caught his breath and his hold onto Paul slackened. He could feel the warmth of Paul’s breath on his shoulder as he caught his breath as well, his face still buried there as his fingers tightened their hold on John’s hand, as if fearing he would get up and leave if he didn’t, and felt the smile on his lips as he turned to him and kissed the top of his head.

“I can’t believe I did that,” the younger man muttered as he rubbed his face into the skin of John’s shoulder and wrapped his arm tighter around the other’s body, wanting him even closer than he already was. John chuckled at his words and nodded and he let out a deep sigh.

“I am glad you did, though,” he said and smiled as Paul raised his head from his shoulder and looked down at him, bruised lips wet and parted, hair an utter mess, and his cheeks still flushed from the exercise. John opened his mouth to say anything, but before he could, Paul head leaned down and kissed him again, his nose knocking awkwardly against his glasses, but neither cared and only chuckled. It was a chaste kiss, unlike the urgent ones from before, but not less passionate, the feeling of it causing John’s heard to flutter as he smiled into it, reaching up to tangle his fingers into his hair before carefully rolling them over, so Paul was lying down properly as well, and sat up to undress them both the rest of the way, before laying back down and curling up around him as he pulled the covers up to shield them from the cold and laid his head on his chest, letting the rapid beating of his heart lull him into a peaceful slumber, not long after which, Paul drifted away as well, a happy grin still on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ah ! Monsieur McCartney…: Ah ! Mr. McCartney. How good it is to see you again. I hope you’ve had a pleasant journey?
> 
> Oui, merci. Pourtant…: Yes, thank you. But I am pleased to be here again. I take it you have received my letter?
> 
> Ah, oui, monsieur. Tout est…: Oh yes, sir. Everything has been arranged for both you and your guest.
> 
> Et vous n’avez rien…: And you didn’t mention anything to my father, as I had asked?
> 
> Non, bien sûr que non…: No, of course not, sir. Everything has been done the way you said. Is there anything else I can help you with?
> 
> Il semble qu’un singe est…: It seems that a monkey is always a monkey, even with good clothes. (literal translation)
> 
> Vous devriez lui donner…: You ought to give him a chance. Most artists are not what we would consider ‘proper’, but that does not reduce the value of their works. Here!
> 
> En plus, on peut…: Besides, manner can be taught.
> 
> En fait, jusqu’à un certain point...: Yes, up to a certain point, they can. Artistic talent, however, can not. I am sorry, Mr. McCartney. I thought you had better taste than this. I have seen dogs do a better job with their paws. I would find another protégé if you feel the need to have one, if I were you. Maybe that dog I just mention.
> 
> Venez, Messieurs. Ces deux…: Come gentlemen. We have given these two enough of our time.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted to thank you all for your wonderful support on this fic and the last couple of chapters. It makes all the time and effort truly worth it, so thank you. 
> 
> I have also put one link into this chapter that directs you to a picture of a bracelet that I based Paul's off, just to give you an idea. 
> 
> Anyway, enough from me. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

The following morning, John was awoken by the feeling of a cold breeze grazing his naked leg and exposed chest, pulling him rudely from his dream, which had been little more than surreal, unconnected images and scenes without any decipherable meaning, but had been all the more pleasurable because of it, and instinctively shuffled closer to the warm body beside him, wrapping his arms around it and pulling it closer against him, in the hope it would offer him some warmth as he buried his nose in the other’s hair and inhaled deeply to take in the scent of lavender  and freshly fallen rain. He hummed at the smell, and tightened his hold as he felt himself drifting further away from his dreams and closer to reality, the world around him beginning to feel all the more real with each second. It was only when the warm body in his arms started to move, that John creaked open an eye to see he was snuggled up to a rather handsome young man, who too appeared to be balancing on the edge of reality, his eyes still firmly closed, but with a frown on his forehead that told John he did not feel much for waking up yet either.

“Paul,” he muttered and raised a hand to brush a lock of hair from his eyes as he looked down at him, taking in his beauty as his mind worked hard to comprehend that he was actually curled up around James Paul McCartney, images of last night’s adventures swimming through his mind as he remembered to feel of his soft lips against his own and the sight of his sweaty body hovering above him. He had slept with Paul McCartney. The thought made him smile for a moment, before his breath got caught in his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe as he wondered whether the other’s reaction would be as positive, and he tensed as Paul pulled his pillow closer and rubbed his face in it as he awoke from his sleep. His eyes grew wide as he rolled over onto his back to see John looking down at him.

“John?” His voice was almost inaudible as it was still weak from his heavy slumber, and John held his breath as Paul’s eyes travelled over his face, his expression surprised and uncertain, until, after a few seconds longer than John would have liked, his eyes softened and a lazy smile crept up onto his lips. “I had not thought I would be waking up to a sight like this when I decided to go to Paris.”

“You didn’t plan this, then?”

“Apparently it would not even have been necessary, if I had,” he replied much to John’s amusement, and let out a sigh as he raised a heavy hand and cupped John’s cheek, his thumb caressing his cheekbone as he continued to study him, his smile disappearing momentarily as he drifted off into thought. “What time is it?” he asked after a few moments, turning his head towards the small alarm clock on the bedside table as he pulled away from him and rolled over to see it better, his body tensing as he saw it was already past nine.

“Please, don’t tell me we have somewhere to be this morning,” John moaned, rolling over to lie back down as he watched Paul sit up, the blanket falling away from him to expose his naked torso, and he could not look away as Paul stretched himself out with a yawn, his muscles pulling tight as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and before John knew what he was doing, he had reached out for him and was running a finger teasingly up and down the other’s back, hoping to lure him back into bed with him. Sadly, he had no such luck.

“Sorry, John,” Paul said as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and reached out for one of the robes that hung from a peg on the wall just within reaching distance from the bed, and slid it on, ridding John of his view in a most cruel way, “I have an appointment with someone for an early lunch. I will be back at two.”

“You will be back at two? You are leaving me here, then?”

“I thought you wanted to stay in bed? Besides, it’s hardly going to be interesting for you, and Paris has so many better things to offer on a beautiful day such as this,” Paul said, tying his robe securely around his middle as he glanced back at John, who rolled over to look out of the window to see for himself, only to sigh in an overtly dramatic way as he saw it was indeed looking like it was going to be a good day with some fine weather. “You should have joined the amateur dramatics. You will be fine.”

“But I can’t even speak French. How am I supposed to do this on my own?”

“I will leave you my key so you can come and go whenever you please, and if you want, I could leave a list with some basic but helpful phrases even you can manage to pronounce, along with some money, so you can at least buy yourself a cup of coffee and some lunch while I’m away,” he said, slapping him reassuringly on the leg before he got up and walked over to the window to close it and draw the curtains, for which John was thankful, feeling rather stupid for not having thought of that before he had fallen asleep. “I am sorry, John, but I cannot cancel this one. I promise to show you around the city when I get back. It’s only for a few hours.”

“Fine. But I had hoped you would be willing to make it up to me in a different way,” John said with a suggestive wink and Paul cleared his throat as he walked over to the door. For a moment, John thought he would leave him without so much as a word in reply, but as he pulled the door open he glanced back at him one last time, a small grimace on his face, and he gave him a firm look before speaking.

“Behave and we might see in what ways I am willing to make it up to you,” he said. John grinned back at him at the answer as images of last night flashed before his eyes along with some new fantasies, which made it almost impossible for him to see Paul winking at him before he stepped outside and closed the door behind him, leaving John alone but eager for that coming afternoon.

***

Taking Paul up on his suggestion, John decided to take a stroll along the Seine that morning to pass the time, and waited for Paul to leave before he got out of bed, drew himself a hot bath, brushed his teeth, got dressed into one of his more comfortable suits, and helped himself to two croissants and a cup of tea that Paul had asked to be brought up for breakfast, before he left the suite, making sure to take the money, keys and list of phrases that Paul had left for him on the mantelpiece with him, along with his notebook and a pencil. He took the stairs down, feeling little for risking his life in the elevator again, and nodded politely at the man behind the reception desk as he passed him on his way out.

Outside the sun was shining brightly and there was a warm breeze that rolled through the various little streets and alleyways as John made his way towards the river in the centre of the city. The leaves on the trees ruffled softly and some twirled downwards onto the streets where plenty of others in all kinds of different colours were already lying, waiting for the winter to come and cover them with snow. John could hear people conversing in French as he walked past them, and smiled at two young women who were shooting him some curious glances, as if they were aware he was not from here; John supposed it were his clothes that gave him away.

He walked for a while, enjoying the warm rays of the sun on his face as he took in the beautiful views the river had to offer as he walked alongside it, occasionally stopping to take a seat on one of the benches or to lean against the low stone walls that were lined around it to keep people from accidentally falling into the water, where he would take out his notebook and make a few sketches or note down some phrases or ideas he could use for his poetry and short stories, hoping to come up with some inspiration. It had been a long time since he had attempted to write anything down, having had little time to focus on his writing since he had started to work for Mr. Edwards and had drowned himself in his paintings and sketches, and for a long time he hadn’t even missed it. Lately, however, in particular since his discussion with Paul on Shelley, he had felt this longing burning up within himself again to grab a pen and to throw his heart onto the page through his words. The hunger was there, insatiable and restless, so all he needed now, was inspiration, which proved to be harder to find than he had expected.

He was uncertain too, about his situation with Paul, not knowing what to make of the way Paul had acted with him this morning when they had woken up, though he could not point out exactly what about the younger man had been a cause for his doubt. Rationally, he knew he had no reason to fear that this thing that had happened between them would be a one-time thing – Paul had even flirted with him right before he had left – but there was something that didn’t feel quite right, John thought as he leaned against the low wall and closed his eyes for a moment as he raised his head to the sun and listened to the chirping of the birds. He was not sure what he had expected to happen after last night, not having had any time to give it much thought, considering he had never even considered the possibility that something like this could happen and the abrupt way in which Paul had shown his interest – not that he was complaining, of course. But a kiss was something he could have expected, couldn’t he? Or a cuddle or something like that to say good morning. But instead, Paul had only smiled at him for a moment, before his expression had turned serious and he had gotten out of bed. Really, John had thought he had been rather cold with him, but then again, perhaps this was how Paul always was with his partners and he was merely overreacting; after all, he did say he had an appointment with someone for an early lunch, so maybe he hadn’t had the time. Neither would it be the first time his overthinking would cause a rift between him and a partner, his eyes seeing things that weren’t there.

One thing John knew for certain, though, and that was that he would not find any answers by moping about it all morning, so, without any further ado, he pushed Paul from his mind – or tried to at least – and decided to make his way to a café to have an early lunch, the two croissants having done little to still his morning hunger – an English breakfast, being much more  substantial – and being in the mood for a good cup of coffee. He walked for a couple of minutes longer until he had found a nice spot and took a seat on the terrace where he, with the help of Paul’s note with phrases as well as many elaborate hand gestures and the waiter’s patience, managed to order himself a cup of coffee and something to eat. After he had finished, he ordered himself another cup of coffee, before he – again with much help from his hands and Paul’s phrases – paid the bill and continued his stroll, keeping close to the river in fear of getting lost, while occasionally slipping into some interesting looking shops to have a quick look around before leaving without buying anything, having too little money to spend and too little knowledge of French to be able to speak to a salesman.

When he found himself stepping into an antique shop, however, he lingered, the warm and cosy atmosphere of the place having a strong appeal to him that made him want to stay a while. The shop was dimly lit and stuffed full from the ground to the ceiling with stuff, which either looked like rubbish that people had thrown out of the window of their apartment, or looked incredibly old, fragile, and expensive. Stacks of books stood balancing beside bookshelves, gathering dust, and numerous lights hung from the ceiling on display at various heights, causing for John to nearly hit his head a few times. Throughout the shop there were tables and shelves with countless of different things on them, most of which he had no clue about what it could be or what people used to use it for, and even the furniture that was for sale had stuff placed on it. At the front, there was a small desk with a cash register and an old man behind it who offered John a polite nod as John caught his eye, and he muttered a polite “bonjour” in reply as he stepped further on towards the back of the shop, rummaging through everything he passed on the way, feeling a little like a child looking for treasure.

John wasn’t entirely sure how long he had spent in the shop once he had finally reached the back of it – all of the clocks that hung from the walls giving him a different time of day – but he did not care enough to find out and let his fingers slide over the material of the old dresses and suits that hung on metal racks, enjoying the feel of it, and paused in his step as he noticed a small glass display with jewellery. Most of it, John noticed as he approached it, appeared to be junk, barely worth more than a penny and thus being heavily overpriced, but there were some pieces that caught his eye. For a moment he considered buying something for Cynthia, knowing she liked old things like this, but he quickly changed his mind as his eye fell on [a particular bracelet ](http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=126768628)at the men’s side of the display. It was a rather simple bracelet of a yellowish gold, thin and set with small white sapphires and the occasional emerald that sparkled as the light caught it, despite the layer of dust that rested on it and the wear that had dulled its shine – John did not need to look at the price tag to know it had to be expensive.

Gently, he picked it up, careful not to drop it, and studied it, wondering how it would look around Paul’s wrist. He hadn’t planned on buying anything for Paul, but this, he thought, was perfect for him: not too flashy, simple and yet expensive and beautiful. Neither did he know what the other man’s taste even was, and he tried in vain to remember if he had even seen Paul wear anything of the kind, but he could not think of anything. It was beautiful, though, and it would be a perfect gift to express his thankfulness and give something back to him for all his effort and the money he had spent on him. In the end, he decided to take the bracelet – he could always return it if Paul hated it – and had a swift look around the shop, before slipping the bracelet into the pocket of his trousers, and forced himself to spend some more time looking around the shop before leaving, not wanting to draw any suspicion to himself. Ten minutes later, he was once again outside, and hurried his way along the Seine back towards the hotel they were staying at, needing some time to think about how to give it to him and rather not being too near if the old man would find out the bracelet was gone.

***

It was already nearing three o’clock by the time Paul had finally made it back to their suite. He dropped his bag on the floor by the door and shrugged off his coat, which he folded rather messily before laying it down on top of it and making his way towards the kitchen to get himself something to drink, feeling little for clearing it away properly as he should. The appointment had gone on for longer than he would have liked, and he felt glad to finally be back home, having had quite enough of talking to other people, and wanting to do nothing else but get himself something to drink – his throat felt as if someone had poured sand in it – and find John to see what he had been up to while he was away.

It was not that he regretted going; it had been nice to see his old friend again and he had needed the opportunity to clear his mind and consider what had transpired between him and John that previous night. He hadn’t lied to John when he had told him he hadn’t planned on seducing him. In fact, the last thing he had wanted to do was start another affair after his conversation with his father and going to Paris had been a way for him to escape all that, to focus on art and perhaps to lose himself for a moment in the arms of a nameless boy or an old flame, without any consequences, to be free for a few days while he still could. Falling into bed with John, however – even if it had been his own fault – had made everything much more complicated. John was not some nameless boy whom he could dump the following day as both of them would expect to happen. John was his portraitist, and over the last couple of weeks he had even started to consider him somewhat of a friend, or as much as a friend as he could have, and most importantly, he knew his father, meaning there was dangerously high chance they could get caught and he was not sure what his father would do if that were to happen.

For now, though, he had decided to let it happen, despite the issues it posed, especially regarding his father. John and he were in Paris for at least another four days, and they could discuss what would happen afterwards when they would head back to England. As his old friend had made more than clear, he had this opportunity now and he would be a fool not to take it while he could.

Entering the kitchen, he took a glass from one of the shelves opposite the kitchen counter and turned towards the sink to pour himself a glass of water, which he finished almost in one go, before refilling it and taking another couple of sips as he started to make his way over to John’s bedroom, hoping to find him there, seeing as he had been neither in the living room nor the kitchen. To his surprise, however, he found his room deserted as well.

“John?” he called out, pausing for a moment to listen for a reply, and when none came he added, “I am back! Where are you?”

“I’m in here!” he could hear the other man call back, and Paul frowned as he noticed his voice had come from his own bedroom at the other end of the hallway. He caught himself grinning as he made his way over there, eager to see him again and wondering why he was in _his_ room of all places. He forced the grin off his face, before he opened his bedroom door to reveal John lying propped up against a couple of pillows on his bed, legs crossed in front of him and his sketchbook in his hands. He glanced up at the sound of the door opening and smiled at him nervously before turning back to his work.

“You are late,” he said, nodding at the alarm clock that stood on Paul’s bedside table, and picked up his pencil to get back to work. He looked calm and relaxed as he laid there, dressed only in his shirtsleeves, vest and trousers, his glasses resting low on his nose, brow furrowed as he drew. Paul’s room was bigger than John’s and looked more contemporary, with light floorboards and light blue wallpaper with a less obnoxious flower pattern, with the occasional blackbird drawn into it. His covers and pillows were of the same bluish hue and a large rug lay beneath his king sized bed, the latter of which looked even more inviting now that it had a handsome man lying in it. Build-in closets filled one side of the room, with one door leading into a Jack-and-Jill bathroom that he and his brother usually shared, and there were two large windows that looked out over the rooftops into the direction of the Seine, of which you could catch glimpses if you took your time to search for it. Paul had always loved his room, and was glad John had decided to make himself comfortable in it, especially as his bed offered them more space than John’s would.

“Sorry,” Paul replied as he closed the door behind him before crawling onto the bed beside the other man, making him bounce, “lunch took longer than anticipated. What are you drawing?”

“Nothing.”

“Can I have a look?”

“No. I don’t like showing unfinished work to people, remember?” John said, glancing up to see Paul studying him, and he was about to close his sketchbook, when Paul took a hold of it himself, stopping him from doing so.

“But I thought I was the exception?” he asked with a faux innocent look in his eye that he knew from experience made it incredibly difficult for people to refuse him. Sure enough, John stared at him for a moment, before he gave in with a sigh, his hold on the sketchbook slackening and allowing Paul to take it as he shyly averted his gaze from him and stared down at his hands. His curiosity piqued, Paul glanced down at the sketchbook, only to gasp as he saw just what kind of drawing John had been working on.

“So, what do you think? It er… it’s supposed to be you,” John said as he sneaked a little look at Paul for a reaction, his voice slightly shaky, and Paul could understand why. For a moment he was at a loss of words, unsure what to say in a situation such as this, or even just how to react, and fought against the flush that was appearing on his cheeks.

“So, this is how you envisage me naked, then?” he finally asked and cleared his throat as he glanced from the paper to John and back to the paper again, catching the other man’s eyes for a brief moment to see him nod in reply.

“Sort of,” he said, “I mean, most of it I remember.”

“I surely hope you remember me with a head, because otherwise that might be rather troubling,” Paul replied before he could stop himself, but to his relief John laughed at that, and soon Paul could not help but match his laughter with a smile of his own as he handed him his sketchbook back and stared at him, feeling how his heart skipped at the sight of his dazzling smile – he could put a spell on him with that smile. How this man did not know how beautiful he was, was a mystery to him.

“Well, if I ever do become a famous artist, I might want to display this at an exhibition some time, so I thought you might appreciate it if I kept my muse and model anonymous,” John replied with a wink of his own, and this time it was Paul’s turn to laugh, which in turn seemed to put John at ease. “You don’t mind it, then?” he asked and Paul shook his head.

“In a way it’s flattering,” he said, still smiling at being called his muse, “although it might have been even more flattering if you hadn’t made me more muscular than I actually am, you know.”

“Well, you didn’t give me much time to have a good look yesterday, did you?” John said and Paul chuckled at that as he shook his head.

“No… I suppose not.” He glanced up at John as a small idea entered his brain, and he considered him for a moment, unsure how he would react to it, but in the end he decided to take his chances. “You know, you er… you could also use a real model as a reference instead of an imaginary one? For the sake of good art?” he suggested and John frowned as he looked from his sketch back up at Paul, not understanding what he meant. He had been about to ask about it, when Paul lifted his hands and started undoing his scarf, pulling at the material and slowly revealing more and more skin as he took it off and let it fall to the floor, leaving John breathless where he was sitting, watching him with wide eyes as he followed every move of Paul’s fingers as they began to take off his jacket.

“Oh, yes… Yes, that could work,” he finally managed to say and Paul took a deep breath as he continued, trying to control the shaking off his fingers as he carefully threw his jacket aside onto the floor and started undoing his waistcoat, popping open one button after the other and watching John with flushed cheeks as he continued to stare at him. He worked in silence as he undressed, first taking off his waistcoat, before undoing his shirt as well, which he eventually shrugged off to land beside the bed with the rest of his clothing, leaving him bare chested, and he licked his lips as he considered whether and how he should continue.

In the end, it was John who started to move, putting his materials aside before reaching out for Paul’s trousers as he glanced up at him with questioning eyes, as if asking him for permission to continue, which Paul nervously gave him with a nod and a tiny smile. Standing up, he took in a deep breath and let his eyes flutter close as John knelt down before him and started undoing his trousers, feeling how his cheeks heated up as he started to pull them down, leaving him only in his underwear with his trousers pooling around his ankles as John lifted up one of Paul’s legs to undo his shoes and slide off his socks. He tensed for a brief moment as he felt John’s lips kissing his knee and, surprised, he opened his eyes to see John looking up at him through his lashes with that same smile on his lips as before, which put Paul at ease right away. Smiling, he reached out and tangled his fingers into his hair to steady himself as he allowed John to take the rest of his clothes off, leaving him completely naked as he stood in front of him.

“What now?” he asked. John smiled as he stood up, and motioned towards the bed.

“Same pose as I had in my drawing will do. I’m going to get a chair,” he said and Paul nodded as he did as John had told him to do, lying down on the bed on his side, his body turned towards the light of the sun that came in through the windows, and pulling his blanket up to cover his middle, or rather, his penis, as everything else was still full on display. He blushed even redder as John came back into view, dragging a chair with him that he placed in front of Paul at the other end of the room, before grabbing his materials from the bed and taking a seat, his eyes falling once again onto his model.

“Ruffle your hair a little,” he said as he studied him.

“I thought you weren’t doing my head,” Paul cleverly replied and John rolled his eyes at him before telling him to do it anyways, allowing Paul to chuckle and relieve some tension in the process. He had never done anything like this before and he felt incredibly vulnerable as he lay there, completely naked and exposed, with only a piece of cloth hiding his most private parts from the rest of the world, while John was still fully dressed – at least in comparison to himself – as he looked at him. He was studying him with a gaze that was as intense as it had been during the meetings for the portrait, except now it was not only his face he was looking at but his entire body, and for some reason it _turned him on_. He ruffled his hair as John had told him to do and laid his head back down on the pillow as he kept his eyes on him, knowing that was most likely to be what he would want, and let his left hand rest on his hips on the soft material of the covers, dangerously close to his cock. He took a couple of deep breaths before he allowed himself to relax – or at least, for as far as he could.

“There is something missing,” John muttered after a minute or so, and the smile returned to his lips as he stood up and hurried out of the room, only to return again with his hands behind his back and a mischievous look in his eyes.

“What is that behind your back?” Paul asked, not sure if he trusted John or not, but remained positioned as he was as John knelt before him again and asked for his wrist, which Paul offered him with a deep sigh, pretending to be annoyed rather than curious.

“Now, close your eyes,” he said and Paul, with one last roll of his eyes, did as he had been asked, and focused on the feeling of John’s fingers on his wrist, manipulating it and moving it into various ways, until he felt something cold and metallic against his skin, causing him to gasp in surprise as he opened his eyes, only to see a most gorgeous gold bracelet around his wrist, the green and white stones shimmering brightly as the sunlight caught it.

“Where did you get this?” he asked as he sat up to study said bracelet, unable to take his eyes off it, even when John began to speak.

“I found it this morning at an antique shop. You like it?”

“Like it? It is gorgeous. This must have cost you a fortune!” he said, gently caressing it with his fingertips, enjoying the feeling of the smoothness of the stones.

“I am sure it would have been,” John replied, and Paul froze for a moment as realisation dawned upon him.

“You didn’t,” he said, his eyes snapping up to look John firmly in the eye. “You stole this, didn’t you?”

“Let’s say it would be better if you did not flaunt that thing around outside,” John replied with a smug grin, but when Paul shook his head at him in disapproval, he rolled his eyes at him. “Come on, Paul. No one is going to miss one little bracelet. I just wanted to repay you with something nice for all the trouble you’ve gone through for me and all the extra money you’ve been spending on me. It is the least I could do.”

“No, the least you could have done was say ‘thank you’, as would have been sufficient.”

“And the least you could have done, is said ‘thank you’ as well, but you did not do that either. Come on, Paul, I am not going to return it so you might as well keep it if you like it,” John said as he got up and sat back down in his seat. Somewhere Paul knew he shouldn’t allow John to do this and that they should return it immediately, but the fact that John had wanted to give him a present made his stomach do weird things and it was so pretty, that ultimately he decided it would be rude to hand it back.

“You are a bad influence on me, Mr. Lennon,” Paul muttered as he laid back down and reassumed his pose, catching John grinning at him as he picked up at his pencil and got to work, his eyes barely leaving his model, while Paul could barely look away from the shiny object around his wrist.

Paul did not know how much time went by as he posed for John, his alarm clock sitting on his bedside table at the opposite side of the bed and thus being too far out of his view, but he tried his best to stay still even though it got gradually more difficult for him. He had always had trouble sitting still for long periods of time, and no matter how often he and John did something like this, it never got any better, especially this time, when he was completely naked, save for a piece of cloth that was hiding his private parts. The fact that lying here naked while John sat opposite him, still fully dressed and biting his lip as he studied every inch of his body with an intense gaze, was turning him on did not help either. He had hoped his initial arousal at the situation would lessen as time passed by, but instead the opposite had turned out to be true; slowly but surely he could feel the start of an erection coming, and he knew for certain that the tiny bit of material that lay draped over his hip, would not be able to hide that as well. Already he had felt it shift, and he was unsure about how much longer it would be able to fulfil his purpose, before it would fall away.

He simply could not help it. John’s gaze as he studied him, taking in every little curve, dimple, freckle and hair, burned into his skin, making it difficult for him to breathe, and whenever their eyes would meet or when he could see John’s gaze shift towards his hips and upper thighs, he felt his body get ten degrees hotter. It was becoming unbearable and he knew he was going to have to say something now before his last bit of privacy would fall away as well, exposing a rather embarrassing erection. If only John did not look so bloody attractive as he sat there, pencil in his hand and a frown on his brow that Paul wished he could kiss away.

“J-John?” he finally managed, but John only shushed him as he made some quick adjustments – Paul could see from the rapid and jerky movements of his hand, which were otherwise much more relaxed – to his drawing and kept his eyes fixed on the page. Paul, however, could not afford to wait. “John,” he tried again, flushing as his voice came out much more desperate than how he had intended and bit his lip as John once again ignored him, this time raising a mere finger to indicate for him to remain quiet, as if he could not even effort the time it would take him to answer him properly. “Johnny, have you finished yet?” Paul tried again in a half-moan, and this time he got a reaction. The older man froze for a moment at the use of a nickname and slowly raised his eyes to glance up at Paul from beneath his lashes, his cheeks quickly flushing as his they fell upon the clear impression of an erection in the sheets.

“You-“ he started, but the rest of the words got lost somewhere on the way out, leaving him breathless and unable to tear his gaze away from the sight before him, causing Paul to squirm under his gaze. “You’re turned on,” he finally managed to say and Paul fought to urge to roll his eyes at him, knowing the older man would not appreciate it, and instead rolled over onto his back, exposing part of his naked hip to John, who swallowed at the sight, his fingers twitching with the urge to touch.

“Care to help me out?” he asked, turning his head to look him in the eye as he reached out for him, smiling as the other could do nothing but stare at him for a moment, before he swiftly put his things away and got into bed with him, causing Paul to snicker as he leaned down to capture his lips in a sudden heated kiss, wasting no time on formalities.

Sex with John, Paul realised as he tugged the other’s shirt from his trousers and pulled it over his head, revealing his naked chest and little pink nipples, which seemed to be begging Paul to wrap his lips around and nibble at them, was different from what he was used to. Sex for him had always been a rather serious thing, more of a means to an end which in itself was very pleasurable and good, than anything that could be seen as a means in itself. But with John, this was different. It was fun and he found himself laughing as they fooled around, playfully teasing each other and giving the other pleasure without giving what Paul had always seen as the end goal – his orgasm – much thought. They were joking around, talking about things, and _laughing_. Paul could not remember the last time he had laughed during sex, but it was amazing, and for some reason it only made the touches, the heated glances and blissful caresses, all the more pleasurable. He was not sure how long he and John had been rolling around the bed, but he did not want it to end any time soon.

He let out a shriek as John wrapped his arms around him and rolled them over, switching their positions so he was lying on top, and tangled his fingers in the other’s hair as he leaned down to kiss him again, allowing their tongue to rub together and explore each other’s mouths in a lazy kiss, as John’s hand moved between their bodies and his fingers started wrapping themselves around his erection, causing him to groan as he melted against him, giving himself over to John’s clever hand.

“I want to feel you inside me,” John moaned into his ear as their kiss broke, sending shivers down Paul’s spine as he thrusted into John’s hand at the thought, images of John moaning below him as he thrusted in and out of him flashing before his eyes as he let out a moan.

“Yes… oh god, yes,” he spoke in reply and sped up his pace as he started fucking John’s hand, needing the friction as he imagined John, hot and tight, around him, milking him. “There’s vasiline in the top drawer of the bedside table.”

John did not need to be told twice, reaching out with his free hand to pull said drawer open and briefly dipped his hand inside to pull out a small container which he handed to Paul, who kissed him again to say thank you, sucking eagerly on his bottom lip. He forced himself to stop moving, and slowly started to kiss his way down his body, licking at the salty skin and pausing for a moment at his nipples to suck at him, causing John to arch his back up into the touch, until he tangled his fingers into his hair and started pushing him downwards, along the trail of hair that led from his navel into the waistband of his trousers, were Paul pulled away to undo them. He popped open button after button, letting his fingers deliberately run over his bulge while he worked, until finally, he could push them down, taking John’s underwear with him in one go.

“You’d better not hurt me, Paul,” John said as Paul came back up and picked up the container. He merely replied to John with a wink as he unscrewed it and dipped three of his fingers in, greasing them up, before moving to kneel between John’s spread legs, where he paused a moment to take in the sight in front of him, thinking him to be one of the most beautiful men he had ever laid eyes on with his soft skin and sandy hair that appeared to shimmer red in the warm light of the sun. Taking a deep breath, he dipped his hand between John’s legs, past his cock and ball, until finally, his fingers grazed his opening, causing John’s breath to hitch in his throat.

“Cold,” he explained as he noticed Paul looking at him and the latter nodded as he leaned over to kiss him again, meeting John’s wet lips for another deep kiss as he slowly circled the man’s rim, giving him a moment to prepare before he started pushing in. Much to both their surprise, it was Paul who gave a curse in response, and not John.

“Oh fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, giving in involuntary thrust with his hips against John’s hairy leg as he imagined pushing inside, feeling that hot tightness around his cock. John chuckled at his response, before he got cut off by the strange feeling of Paul’s finger worming itself inside of him, pushing past the tight muscle and stretching him open.

“I didn’t know posh boys could swear,” John said, groaning, and Paul shot him a death glare as he paused his movements for a moment, grinning as John thrusted his hips up in frustration, needing him to continue.

“There are a lot of things posh boys can do, as you are about to find out. Now, keep quiet before I change my mind and take care of myself instead,” he said as he started to move his finger again, pushing it all the way inside of him in one go, which made John gasp out in shock.

“You wouldn’t,” he muttered, his fingers grabbing the sheets as Paul started to move his finger inside of him, ignoring him as continued stretching him open, making sure John was comfortable enough before adding a second, and finally a third. John moaned at the feeling, thrusting his hips up to urge Paul on, until the latter could not take it any longer – needing to feel that tightness somewhere else – and slipped his fingers out, leaving John open and empty as he quickly lubed up his own cock with the remaining grease and positioned himself between John’s spread legs, letting John wrap them around his waist as he placed a hand beside John’s head to lean on as he used the other to guide the head of his cock to John’s entrance. He watched John’s face closely for any signs of doubt or discomfort as he slowly began to push into him, groaning as his cock was slowly wrapped in velvety tightness, the feeling being so good that for a moment all thought left Paul’s mind.

“Fuck, your cock felt much smaller in my hand,” John moaned as he threw his head back and forced himself to relax, knowing that would make it easier. Paul paused for a moment and leaned down to suck on John’s neck to help him take his mind of the pain as he slowly continued, making sure not to go too fast, which was easier said than done, his own arousal making it hard for him to focus.

“I am going to pretend that was a compliment,” he muttered into John’s skin and he could feel John laugh at that, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, before letting out another groan. Still, Paul pushed on and soon he was fully inside. He held still for a while, allowing them both to get used to the feeling and to catch their breaths, before he slowly started to pull out and thrust in again, letting out a deep groan from low in his throat as he felt pleasure pull at his cock.

“God, you _are_ tight, you know that,” Paul muttered as he repeated the movement, his fingers digging into John’s thigh where he was holding onto him and John hummed in reply.

“Maybe that’s the issue then,” he joked, and Paul would have slapped him if he had been able too, but the feeling of John’s arse so tightly wrapped around him, his inner muscles pulling him even deeper inside, rendered him unable to do anything else, much to John’s luck.

“Fuck off,” he muttered instead, and John laughed again, but was quickly cut off as Paul changed his angle and hit his prostate, allowing for a long, deep moan to escape the other man’s lips. Smirking, Paul thrusted into him again, keeping that angle and slowly started to speed up his thrusts, feeling how John’s body melted against his as he was reduced to an incoherent blubbering mess, his own hands coming up to grab at his body, pulling him even closer than he already was.

Soon, Paul got a pretty good rhythm going and he could feel his own orgasm approach, the old familiar feeling pooling low in his stomach. John, he could feel, would not last much longer either, feeling how his insides contracted around him whenever he hit his prostrate and how his cock was leaking an almost continuous stream of precum between their bellies. Eventually, the pleasure was becoming too much and Paul reached up to kiss the other man again, moaning almost uncontrollably into his mouth as his movements sped up even move, making the bed move with him, banging against the walls as John moaned into his mouth and swallowed his tongue as he began to move with him, rolling his hips up at the same pace as his thrusts, making the slide even smoother and so much better.

“Fuck…” Paul groaned as he buckled his hips up, feeling how pleasure was starting to take over and his orgasm was pulling at his stomach, nearing quickly.

“Filthy mouth you have,” John muttered in between groans, only to hiss as Paul gave a sudden violent thrust against his prostrate, hitting it directly, and almost causing for John to be tipped over the edge. He only needed a little more – just a little.  

“You’re the one to speak,” Paul grumbled back and, knowing he was not going to last much longer, slid his hand between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around John’s dripping cock, giving him exactly what he needed in that moment as he gave it a couple of pulls and, not even a second later, John let out a shout as he came, spilling his seed all over Paul’s hand and pulling Paul’s cock even deeper inside of him, his insides practically milking him as he continued his thrusts. Paul bit his lip as he continued his movements, fucking him through it, until, about two minutes later, he came too, biting down John’s shoulder to muffle his cries as he gave one last thrust and spilled himself inside the other man, before collapsing on top of him, exhausted and utterly spent.

“Not bad for a posh boy,” John muttered once they had both caught their breaths, and Paul had to chuckle at that as he lifted his head to look at him. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on John, but when he did, he could not help but sigh at the sight of him, his cheeks flushed, hair sticking in all sorts of directions, lips wet and red from the kissing, complete with dopey smile that made Paul want to kiss him. Which he did, moaning contently as John wrapped his arms around him and rolled them over again so they were lying on their side, facing each other. For a moment they simply looked at each other, before Paul suddenly burst out in a fit of giggles.

“What?” John asked, his own smile widening, thinking Paul looked adorable when he let himself go like this and allowed his expression to reflect his inner feelings, liking that much better than the cold wall he was used to see from him.

“Nothing,” Paul answered once he had calmed down a little, his voice cracking as he wiped a tear from his eye that John was not sure was from happiness or sadness, and shook his head, “It’s just… my father would kill me if he knew about this and I am just so incredibly happy.” He chuckled again, while at the same time, he took a hold of the other’s hand and held it close to him, his grip so tight John was – if only for a second – worried he might bruise him. Unsure what to say to something like that, feeling a strange combination of happiness and sadness himself from his lover’s ambiguous words and actions, he sweetly caressed his cheek, before leaning in to kiss him again, hoping to outbalance the sadness with happiness this way, and by the feeling of Paul’s lips, which curled up in a smile as they were pressed against his own, he was doing a pretty good job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah... I am kind of spoiling you with the smutty scenes, but I am not sure if you should see that as something positive or not. Either way, I would treasure them, if I were you ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for being patient with this fic. I know it's been ages since the last chapter, but here it finally is and I hope you will enjoy it. 
> 
> Thanks chut-je-dors for translating a couple of sentences for me again. You are the best. The translations are listed at the end of the fic again like last time. 
> 
> And don't forget the leave kudos and comments. I always love to hear what you guys are thinking, even if it's just gibberish over John and Paul. Love you! <3

The words Paul had uttered that afternoon concerning his father remained swirling inside John’s mind even throughout the following morning when Paul and he had decided to enjoy breakfast together at one of the cafes just outside of the city limits, before going on a walk to admire the city as they had been planning on doing since they had first arrived in the city. It was a small but pretty café, situated directly on a narrow street, which left barely any room for any tables to be placed outside, but the large glass doors at the front could be opened to provide some room for two or three tables on warm days. Today, however, the doors were shut and the inside was filled with people attempting to escape the dreary weather and the dark looming clouds that were drifting overhead, which had prompted the waiters to put down some extra tables and chairs, making it almost impossible for anyone to walk around without accidentally bumping into anything. The mossy colour of the painted wood on the exterior of the building had been carried through inside in the wallpaper and tablecloths, and had been mixed with some accents of deep reds and oranges as well as the dark grey of the stone slate flooring to create a warm and cosy feel, while the light coming in through the windows kept it bright and fresh.

John and Paul had taken a seat at a corner table alongside the wall at the front of the café and enjoyed a cup of coffee and a plate of fried eggs and toast, while they took in the pleasant smell of tobacco, coffee, freshly baked pastries, and the many different flowers that were placed onto the many tables in small vases. There was a strong whiff of cologne and perfume in the air due to the many people that were seated in such a small space, which they both tried their best to ignore as Paul read a French newspaper and John took some notes in his notebook while staring out of the window. Occasionally, he would glance at Paul and study him as he wondered what exactly the other man had meant when he had said his father would kill him if he knew about them, but Paul appeared oblivious to the intent gaze that had been fixed upon him. He knew he should not have expected any differently when Paul had once again refused to elaborate on his words and strange demeanour, considering he had so far always been met with a dismissive gesture or phrase when he had inquired about anything remotely personal, but still he had not been able to help but hope - perhaps rather foolishly - that it would be different now.

He was glad, at least, to note that despite his odd reaction yesterday, those mixed and confusing feelings he had expressed were not still plaguing him now, as John had first feared. He looked calm and composed as he sat back in his chair: his legs crossed, back straight, shoulders loosened, and his hands relaxed and unwavering as he turned the page or brought a piece of toast to his mouth. He looked precisely how a man of his class ought to look in a situation such as this one and how John was used to seeing him - with his mask placed high upon his nose, looking distant and approachable at the same time. Below the table, however, well hidden from view, he had his knee pressed firmly against John’s, like a constant reminder of their newly-found closeness, and on his wrist, John could catch glimpses of white and green sparkles, which told him Paul was wearing the bracelet he had given him, each glimmer causing his stomach to twist with pride that this gorgeous beauty of a man belonged to him.

“I see you are wearing my gift, then,” he said as another sparkle caught his eye, and he repressed a grin as he glanced up at the younger man to see him doing something similar. The more time he spent with him, the easier it became to recognise the smallest clues that could give away what the man was truly thinking and feeling, knowing where to look. This time, John could see the tiniest of twitches at the corner of his lips as Paul suppressed a smile of his own and allowed the bracelet to roll further down his wrist, making it look like an accident as he brought it into clear view for John to see.

“Of course. Something as beautiful as this, it would be a shame not to wear it, wouldn’t you agree? Not that I appreciate your manner of acquiring it, however,” he said, giving John a firm look, but there was a sparkle in those hazel eyes that gave him away and allowed John to let his grin shine through as he cocked his head to the side, feeling rather smug.

“Naturally,” he replied with a wink in good-humoured jest, pricking a piece of toast onto his fork and eating it as he kept his eyes locked onto Paul’s, before laying his fork back down and licking some egg from his finger, watching in amusement as Paul’s gaze was drawn to his mouth at the movement, recognising the sparkle of interest that lay in it.

“Besides,” Paul spoke after clearing his throat and averting his eyes from the distraction that was John Lennon’s mouth, which filled the older man with a sense of triumph, “there would have been no use in refusing it. I am well-acquainted with your sort.”

“My sort?” John scoffed in return, snickering as Paul glanced back at him with an almost exasperated look in his eyes, before his hand vanished beneath the table to grasp at John’s wrist before the older man had even realised he had been moving his hand to the other’s thigh, taking John by surprise as he halted his movement.

“Yes, Mr. Lennon, your sort. I have been around enough young gentlemen like yourself to know not only how to recognise them, but what to expect as well. That,” he paused to nod at where his hand was still firmly wrapped around his wrist, “was hardly surprising, nevermind impressive.” For a moment John was uncertain how to reply to that, and licked his lip as he considered the implications of what the other had said, liking the subtle hint of a challenge that lay in it, one that he was more than eager to accept, the suggestion of Paul’s experience with former lovers resulting not in jealousy, but in an eagerness to prove himself, a competition not so much with those previous partners, but with the man himself, a tug-of-war with the same end-goal but with each other’s pride on the line. John assessed him for a moment, before pulling back his wrist in seeming defeat as he sat back in his chair, displaying his body to the other man in a manner that was supposed to be inviting, as he continued to hold his gaze, a small smile playing on his lips.

Paul, however, pretended to be indifferent to the other’s attempt to play him with such a simple trick and turned back to his newspaper, as if that was the end of their conversation. His expression had barely changed at all during their exchange, not having so much as twitched or flushed at anything either of them had said or done, making it seem like they had been talking about the latest developments concerning the impeccable state of Aunt Mimi’s flower beds, rather than shooting some flirtatious banter back and forth, which was a rather curious thing, considering yesterday he had not been able to pose in the nude without becoming aroused, and John wondered how he managed it.

“We aren’t going to discuss what happened yesterday, then?” he asked after a moment of silence as Paul brought his cup of coffee up to his lips, watching closely as he halted at his words for a second before taking a sip as if nothing was wrong.

“We are discussing yesterday,” he said, keeping his eyes on the newspaper that lay before him, but both men knew that was not what John was talking about it.

“That is not what I meant, Paul. I am talking about what you said about your father.”

“I don’t feel the need to discuss it. Nor do I wish to bore you with something as silly as that. It is not important and it most certainly does not concern you.”

“Oh, I think it more than concerns me, seeing as you were talking about what would happen if he would find out about us, which clearly includes me. Is that what you have been worrying about all this time? About him finding out?” John asked, and Paul studied him for a moment before shaking his head.

“John-” he started, but before he could say anything else, they were interrupted by a young lad about the same age as they were, perhaps slightly younger, with bright amber eyes, blond hair, and a slender physique, who greeted Paul like an old friend, his English sounding broken on his tongue that was clearly more used to the shapes and forms of the French vernacular than the English one.

“Mr. McCartney! I had not expected to see you here. Good morning! Or, well, I suppose it could be better, considering the weather. I thought you were still in London?” the young man asked in a bubbly sort of fashion as he came to stand next to them, a bright smile on his face. Paul turned to him with a matching smile of his own as he recognised him and offered him his hand, which the young lad shook with a polite nod, before offering him a seat at their table. Thankfully, the man refused.

“Oh no, my apologies, but I shouldn’t. Olivier is waiting for me here somewhere. I am supposed to meet him for coffee. You remember Olivier Morin?” he asked, sounding surprisingly fluent in English, despite his accent, and Paul nodded as he replied that he did. “He is having a small ball this evening, you see, just among friends, of course - you know the kind - but there are still some things to arrange. Organisational things, I mean. He asked me to assist him, so I cannot stay and talk for long. But it is wonderful to see you again. I thought you wouldn’t be back until springtime at least. If I had known you would be here…”

“Last minute change of plans. Oh, and allow me to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Mr. Lennon.” With those words, Paul turned around to motion at the man beside him, who looked up from his notebook in surprise at the mention of his name, and swiftly covered the mindless sketch he had been making of the stranger before him in his notebook with his left hand as he offered him his right with a force smile. “John, this is Cédric Gardet, a close friend of mine.”

“How do you do,” he grumbled as they shook hands, while his mind tried in vain to work out what exactly Paul had meant by calling the man before him “a close friend”, especially considering he had been introduced as his “dear friend”. Once the French lad had released his hand with a polite nod and a wide smile, John shuffled closer to the other man beside him and laid his hand on his thigh as he closed his notebook to keep anyone from seeing what he had been working on, knowing neither the lad himself nor Paul would appreciate it. Cédric continued to smile as he looked between the two men, his eyes travelling from John to Paul and back again, until his smile widened even more in what appeared to be understanding.

“It is nice to meet you, Mr. Lennon,” he said, before turning back to Paul, leaning with his hand on the table as he leaned closer to him, lowering his voice as he spoke.

“If you are interested, the ball I was talking about is happening this evening at eight at the Morin’s mansion as usual. I am certain Olivier would appreciate it if you were to come. I know he would have sent you an invitation if he had known you were in Paris,” he said, looking suddenly somewhat nervous as he glanced around him, as if to check whether if anyone was near enough to hear what they were talking about. The secrecy awakened John’s curiosity.

“We would love to come, Cédric. We will be there,” Paul promised and the lad’s face lit up at the news, all worry having momentarily disappeared, before his expression turned serious again.

“Olivier will be most pleased to hear that. He has missed you, you know. As have I, of course,” he said and with that he pulled back from him and turned his attention to the both of them again as he continued. “Now, if you two gentlemen would excuse me, I’d better not let my friend wait for too long, or else he’ll get impatient. I will see you both this evening. À bientôt!” he said and raised his hand at the both of them, before vanishing back into the crowd of people as he made his way further into the café.

“Who was he?” John inquired once he was certain the young lad was too far away to be able to hear them, trying not to sound as bitter as he was feeling. Paul, however, didn’t seem to notice the shift in his mood and merely smiled as he picked up his cup of coffee and took a careful sip, minding not to burn his tongue.

“An old friend of mine. Oh, and do not worry about this evening. You will enjoy yourself,” he said.

“How do you know?” John asked, finding that hard to believe as he most certainly did not like balls, feeling little desire to be dancing with strange women he was not interested in and making polite conversation with people that were so uninteresting he could not even make himself pretend to care. Paul, however, smiled at him and nudged his knee with his own at his question, which John could guess was supposed to be a comforting gesture.

“Remember when I told you the art exhibitions were not the reason why I enjoyed my trips to Pairs? Well, this upcoming ball will show you exactly why I do enjoy these trips so much,” Paul said and took another sip of his coffee before continuing. “These balls Olivier Morin organises are not your usual dances. It was during one of them that I met Cédric, if you were wondering.”

“He is not just an old friend, is he?” John asked and swallowed thickly when Paul shook his head in reply, glancing at John from the corner of his eye.

“He is a good lad. I was seventeen when I met him and we have been close ever since.”

“Is that how you realised you… had certain preferences? How your father found out?” John asked, and Paul nervously glanced around to see if anyone was paying them any attention, before he shook his head.

“Finish you coffee,” he said, much to John’s surprise, as he moved to stand up and began to put on his coat. “If we are going to discuss this, we’d better not do it here.”

***

The two men barely spoke to each other at first as they made their way through the small cobblestone streets of Montmartre, walking closely together underneath a single umbrella which they shared to protect themselves from the rain that was softly falling down from the sky above them. It did not look like the weather would be clearing anytime soon, neither men being able to see even the slightest glimpse of blue among the grey clouds, but they hardly cared, liking the excuse it offered them to be walking pressed together like they were, with their shoulders and arms brushing as they ascended the hill, moving higher and higher up to where Paul had promised him they would be able to look out over the entire city of Paris. It was only when they came by a set off stairs that would lead them further up the hill at a steeper incline and through the many tall buildings that made up the neighbourhood, that Paul began to speak, their surroundings being completely deserted except for the occasional stray cat.

“Cédric was not the first man to pique my interest,” he said in a soft voice as they began to climb the stairs, locking his arm with John’s to be even closer to him and to offer them both some additional stability, the stone stairs being slippery beneath their feet due to the rain as they ascended them. John hummed to let him know he was listening as he glanced at him to see him looking down at their feet as he continued to speak. “Nor am I worried my father will find out about my preferences, as you called them. I would even dare to say he knew about them before I did.” He chuckled at the confession, but John did not join in, feeling the way Paul’s hold on him tightened as he spoke the words, which revealed just how painful and potentially scary it was for him to talk about something this personal.

“How did he find out?” John asked as a gentle encouragement, which made Paul glance up to study him for a brief moment before letting out another chuckle.

“You really are not going to give up on this, are you?” he asked, but John did not need to answer the question, both men already knowing the answer he would give. The younger man took a deep breath to calm his nerves before he started speaking again. “I met this boy,” he said, biting his lip as he considered how to continue, “I was young , barely twelve, and from the moment I first saw him I felt a strong attraction to him. Not that I understood what that attraction meant, of course.

"We met at one of the old theatres in Liverpool before it closed down, and it had been one of the first times that I had been allowed to come backstage when I first saw him. One of the actors had taken me under his care and was showing me around when I saw him practising some lines with some other boys and, of course, I was thrilled to hear I was allowed to join in. He was handsome even then and a good year older than I was, but we became close friends and I would visit him at the theatre as often as I could manage, sneaking away from home whenever I could with the most silly excuses. We would meet up after shows as well, something my father especially very much disliked and I think now he might already have suspected something then, but for months it went fine like that. We would talk, play, rehearse lines, and he’d try to teach me how to act, but I wasn’t any good and I preferred to simply practise lines with him and watch him play instead, but he never gave up on trying. My brother Michael would cover for me when my mother would ask where I was, but after a while she started to realise where I was going whenever I vanished and told my father. He was furious, of course. Having his own son socialise with actors and other common low-life types, it was disgraceful in his eyes.

"He caught us together that same day. We had been rehearsing lines together, sitting alone in one of the dressing rooms and were holding hands when my father burst in. He yelled at me, slapped me across my face, and dragged me away and out of the theatre. Not long after, the theatre was shut down and the company that he had been part of had moved to London. We had never gone much further than holding hands or giving each other curious pecks, and I don’t think I quite realised what I had been doing until I saw the anger on my father’s face. I had never seen him that furious before.”

“That does not sound pleasant,” John said, uncertain what else to say, and Paul chuckled sadly as he nodded in agreement.

“It wasn’t. I met him again when I was seventeen during a family trip to London. We fell into bed together, but we never reconnected in the same way again. I still visit his plays whenever I can, though.”

“Are you talking about that young actor we saw in London a few days ago? Whitfield ? I er… I heard you mention something about loving him,” John confessed, surprised when Paul chuckled.

“You weren’t meant to hear that. Besides, I never loved him. I have never loved anyone, I don’t think. After him there were many more: other actors, rent boys, artists… When I was sixteen I had an affair with one of my father’s acquaintances. He was quite a few years older than me and taught me a lot. My father caught us kissing one day and decided that if I had not found myself a proper wife by the age of twenty-five, he would take matters into his own hands. To be honest, it had been a stupid mistake to start making out in the library of all places with the door unlocked. I should have known better and my father had been furious with me. Probably because he had thought my preferences had changed since that day with Whitfield. Two years later he found out about the rent boys, which meant I needed to find another way to continue my affairs. First, I only had Paris, where I could do whatever I wanted as long as I was careful, and my father was never aware of any of the men there, I don’t think. But then about a year ago, he hired a new stable boy. He caught me with him over two weeks ago.”

“And that is what has been bothering you?” John asked and Paul nodded as he bit his lip.

“He gave me an ultimatum: either I find a girl to marry in the coming two months, or he will find someone for me himself. I came to Paris to enjoy my last sense of freedom before I take a wife. My father does not even know you are here.”

“Shouldn’t you find a girl to marry, then? So you know you are at least marrying someone you like?” John asked, knowing he would not be able to stand marrying someone he did not know or was at least a little interested in, but Paul shook his head.

“My father will find someone suitable. After all, it would not do for his oldest son to marry anyone who is not beautiful, smart, accomplished, and kind. It is all for the good of the family, you know. Besides, despite my faults as an oldest son, he does still love me; he wouldn’t marry me off to someone he knows I would not like,” he said as he looked up at the other man with a pained smile, and nodded at something directly ahead of them. “Come on, we are nearly there.”

He quickened his pace as he intertwined their fingers and pulled John along with him as they walked up the last couple of steps, and, turning around a corner, came by a large plateau that was build up against the hill and provided the perfect lookout over the city beneath them. It was an absolutely stunning view and John was dumbstruck for a moment was he stared at the city below, over the many, many roofs, between which he could see the tops of trees onto which the sun poured many separate rays of white gold as it fought to break through the many dark clouds that were attempting to swallow it up. Apart from them, there was one other couple who seemed to have had the same idea in coming up here. They stood leaning against the railing as they stared out over the city and spoke silently to each other, clearly in love and too caught up in each other to realise they were being joined by two men. Nevertheless, Paul squeezed his hand to catch his attention, before letting go of him, and smiled as he put the umbrella away and beckoned him to follow him to the railing, the rain having stopped.

“I hope you are not afraid of heights,” he said, half-serious, half as a joke, and John could only mutter an almost inaudible “no” as he followed him, staring at the younger man as he turned around to see where he was walking, and in that moment all John could think was that he was even more beautiful than the city that lay at their feet; a thought that he immediately pushed away, thinking it was daft of him to think such silly things about a man who was not only too far out of his league, but who would also have to get married in a few months.

“It is beautiful,” he said after a moment of silence as they stood with their sides pressed against one another, taking in the sight before them while their fingers played with each other, the touches light and almost shy, ready to pull away if they would need to, and Paul hummed in agreement.

“Isn’t it just?” he said, nudging the other’s calf with his foot.

“I am sorry about what is happening with your father. It must be tough,” John said, his voice tight as he kept staring at a speck in the distance, even when he could feel the other’s eyes on him, taking him in. After another moment of silence, Paul let out a deep sigh and shrugged as he turned back to look out over the city, a deep frown on his forehead.

“Just make this week worth my while,” he finally spoke and John promised that he would.

***

That evening, the two of them arrived about half an hour later than the time Cédric had given them that morning, which meant they were exactly on time according to Paul, who offered John an encouraging smile as he helped him out of the carriage. He was looking as handsome as ever in his black suit with velvet coat, his hair styled perfectly and his face cleanly shaven, giving him an almost doll-like look.  John had put on the same suit that Paul had given him for the exhibition at The Salon - which, thankfully, someone had washed and ironed after he and Paul had handled it so carelessly that evening when they had gotten back - and again he felt drastically under-dressed compared to his companion, despite the latter’s constant reassurances that he could make princes jealous with the way he looked, figuring he was exaggerating even if he did look handsome, and that he would not need to exaggerate if he was looking handsome enough already.

The building where the ball was being held was not so much a mansion as John had understood it, but a grand, 3-storey,  pure-white Parisian townhouse, just outside the centre of the city, with a small set of stairs leading up to a large, shiny, black door with a golden doorknob, that John supposed would resemble a lion’s head that was holding the knocker in its beak, but he was too far away to be able to tell. Light shone through the many windows, the curtains behind which had been drawn to keep curious passers-by from looking in, giving John only an impression of the figures moving inside. It looked pretty busy, much to John’s dismay, but when he felt Paul’s fingers brush the inside of his hand, most of his worries vanished from his mind. Taking a deep breath, he followed his companion up to the front door, and watched as Paul produced a small key from beneath a small statue of a dog that was placed besides the stairs, and opened the door for them, revealing a narrow hallway with plain white walls and black-and-white tiled flooring, where they were greeted by a cacophony of music, laughter, and talk in both English and French. They had barely stepped inside and closed the door behind them, when a young man came into the hallway and approached the two of them with a wide smile that John could see was more directed at Paul than at him.

“Monsieur McCartney! Vous êtes là!” the young man said as he beamed at Paul, offering him his hand, which Paul gladly shook as he smiled back at him.

“Olivier. Ravi de vous revoir. Comment allez-vous?” he replied, and John felt a familiar pull in his gut at the way the vowels and consonants rolled of the other man’s tongue, thinking the already beautiful languages sounded even better when Paul was the person speaking it.

“Très bien, merci. Je dois vous avouer que je n’en presque croyais pas quand Cédric m’a dit qu’il avait bien parlé avec vous ce matin. Et c’est qui ce monsieur, qui vous avez avec vous?” the young boy asked as he finally turned his eyes onto John and offered him a hand as well, looking him up and down with an appreciative gaze that made John stand a little closer to Paul, unsure what to make of the other man.

“Voici John Lennon, un ami à moi. John? This is Olivier Morin, our host for the evening,” Paul explained as he introduced them, switching back to English to make sure his companion understood and John acknowledged the other man with barely more than an uninterested hum as he shook his hand. He was handsome, with raven black hair, pale skin, and a couple of very light freckles that were scattered over his nose and cheeks. He had high cheekbones, a well-defined jawline and wide lips that curled up naturally, making him appear friendly and approachable without trying.

“It is nice to meet you, John,” Olivier Morin said kindly in the same accent as his friend from this morning. “If you two would excuse me, however, I need to find some more bottles of wine before people will start to complain. Please, make yourself at home and don’t forget to say hello to Cédric. He has been waiting for you. I will find you later.” They acknowledged each other with one last nod and with that, Olivier turned around and started making his way to where John presumed the kitchen was situated. He had been about to head towards the large set of doors from behind which they could hear the sound of music and laughter, when Paul stopped him, wrapping his fingers loosely around the other’s wrist to hold him back with the lightest of touches.

“John,” he started and John fought the urge to whine as he turned back around to have Paul lean up against him to press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth, his hand resting on his breast, making him freeze up as he took him somewhat by surprise. “Please behave and don’t be grumpy. We are here to enjoy ourselves, remember?”

“Not that I have any idea how we are supposed to do that. Balls are not for me, Paul.”

“Well, this one will be different,” the other man replied with a suggestive hint in his voice that made John frown. He didn’t say anything as Paul reached up to fix his scarf - he always struggled with doing them properly - his clever fingers pulling deftly at the material, tugging it into place as he glanced up at him through his eyelashes, his full pink lips slightly parted in a way that caused John’s mind to spin with many inappropriate thoughts, which were heightened obscenely as he continued to speak. “Be a good boy for me, would you? I promise, you will enjoy yourself,” he said, almost teasingly, and John hummed as Paul leaned forward to kiss him again, properly this time, and John found himself unable to deny him anything when he asked him like that.

At first sight, the ball looked like any other, the room being filled with both men and women, some dancing, while others were sitting alongside the walls as they sipped a glass of wine, either talking in small groups or simply watching the dancers in the middle of the room. At one back, a small group of musicians were situated who John could hear knew what they were doing, and who would play different kinds of songs throughout the evening, making sure to switch up the different dances and occasionally doing a request when a young lady would ask for one. On closer inspection, on the other hand, John started to notice something odd. Although the group of dancers in the middle of the room was made up of both men and women, they were not strictly separated with the women all on one side, and the men at the other, and instead, as John came to realise, they were not only dancing with partners of the opposite sex, but of the same sex as well, meaning some men had taken on the parts of the women and some women the parts of the men. He could see more of those couples sitting at tables or on sofas surrounding the dance floor, and when he saw two women giggling together as they flirtatiously played with the materials of each other’s dresses, John realised what kind of ball this was.

“Try not to stare John, it is impolite,” Paul chided him with a wink as he noticed his lover watching the two young women on the sofa, and let out a chuckle as John turned back to look at him, his eyes wide. “I told you, you would enjoy it,” he added with a wink and when John appeared too shocked to say anything, Paul took him by his hand and dragged him towards a small group of people, one of whom John recognised as being Cédric, who greeted them both with a warm smile, and - much to John’s surprise - made no comment at all on the fact that Paul was still holding his hand. It took John a moment to come over his shock and to stop trying to pull his hand away from his lover’s grasp.

As Paul had promised, the ball indeed turned out to be enjoyable as John became more used to showing his affections for the other man publicly like this, fighting against years of doing the exact opposite out of fear and resourcefulness, while he and Paul spoke to some people, most of whom Paul had already met and who could speak English, while they enjoyed a glass of wine, and watched other people dance. Paul’s hand was still firmly wrapped around his, as if he were afraid John would freak out and run away if he didn’t, a possibility John had to admit was all too plausible, and he was glad to have him near him to ground him. There was a strong sense of freedom, though, and both men were glad they did not to have to hide their affections in the company of others for a while, and even John began to feel glad Paul had decided they would go, understanding why he liked these balls so much. Even the other guests were turning out to be somewhat interesting to talk to, most of the people being acquaintances of Paul, though John had to admit some of them were still too posh and arrogant for his liking, but there were plenty of other people around to make it bearable.

"So,” John asked as they took a seat on one of the sofas, taking a moment for themselves after a prolonged discussion about the faults of contemporary art of which John could not remember the details if his life depended on it and that had even started to bore Paul after a while, and curled his arm around the other’s shoulder, pulling him to him as he surveyed the area, “how many of these people have you _not_ taken to your bed, then?” Instead of acting shocked at such a forward question, however, Paul merely hummed and looked over the room as he leaned against John’s side, allowing his hand to rest on the inside of the other’s thigh in a way John knew what meant to be teasing.

“Some of the women, I suppose,” he answered after a moment of consideration and John nearly choked on the sip of wine he had wanted to take at, and stared down at Paul, only realising he had been joking as he saw the amused shimmer in his hazel puppy eyes that were not half as innocent as they appeared. “I am only kidding, John. Apart from Cédric and Olivier, perhaps… two others?”

“But you have done it? With a woman?” John asked, suddenly intrigued as he watched the women around him, thinking it strange not to see their eyes fixed onto men but on each other. Beside him, Paul shrugged.

“Once or twice. Just to see what it was like.”

“And?” Again, Paul shrugged, causing John to laugh. They remained seated like that for a little while longer, until another guest came up to them and turned to Paul as he offered him his hand.

“Excusez-moi? Voulez-vous danser?” he asked, and John raised an eyebrow at that, thinking the man bold for asking that while someone had a protective arm slung over his shoulder, but Paul assessed him for a moment before sitting up and putting his glass away on the side table beside the sofa.

“You don’t mind, do you, John?” he asked and for a moment John considered telling him he did, but he knew Paul would do what he wanted no matter what he thought about it, anyway, so he let him, retreating his arm in defeat as he shot the strange man a warning look, which was swiftly ignored by both him and Paul, as the latter gave him his hand with a smile. He watched closely as Paul allowed himself to be taking to the dance floor where he came to stand at the side where the women would usually stand, next to another man at his right and a woman at his left. John didn’t remove his gaze as he watched him dance, speaking and laughing heartily with his dance partner in a way he had not seen him do except for the previous evening when they had laid in bed together, enjoying their post-coital bliss.

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” a voice came from beside him and John hummed as he turned his head to see Olivier standing next to him, a glass of wine in his hand as he watched the dancers as well. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he continued, “it won’t last forever. Paul doesn’t do that sort of thing.”

“I know. He told me about his father,” John replied, feeling his throat tighten at the idea that he indeed was going to have to give Paul up someday, a day that would come sooner rather than later, and a day he did not want to think about. Not yet, anyway. Olivier, however, seemed surprised at his words.

“How long have you known him?” he asked, and John shrugged.

“A couple of weeks. I don’t really remember exactly.”

“He seems to like you. More so than he ever like me or Cédric.” John hummed, unconvinced, and tore his eye away from Paul to see that Cédric was dancing as well, two couples away from Paul, with another man.

“Are you and Cédric…?” John started, and was not surprised when Olivier immediately admitted that they were, sighing as he took a seat on the armrest beside John.

“We like our freedom,” he explained when he noticed who John looking at. After a brief moment of silence, he added,  "he really does like you, you know.“

"I don’t know…”

“You should know. I have been watching you two all evening. You make a handsome couple,” he said and John turned his head to look at him, not noticing it when the song changed into another and Paul and Cédric came over to them, laughing as they discussed their dance partners, only falling silent when they were beside their lovers again.

“What are you two discussing, then?” Paul asked as he took his former seat on the couch at John’s side, pressing himself even more against him in a way that forced John to wrap an arm around him, and Cédric pressed a peck onto Olivier’s lips, before taking the class of wine from him.

“You,” Olivier replied to Paul’s question as he winked at Cédric, who giggled in reply.

“Good things, I hope?”  Paul inquired at the news, turning to John who fought a blush as Olivier answered for him.

“Obviously,” he said and Paul leaned in to kiss John as well, before turning away and moving to stand again, much to John’s surprise, who stared up at him as he waited for him to explain his leaving him again so soon, wanting him back against him.

“Do you dance?” Paul asked, seemingly out of nowhere, and John blinked up at him a couple of times, before shaking his head.

“I don’t.”

“But you know how to?”

“My aunt taught me,” he said and immediately wished he hadn’t as he saw a mischievous grin appear onto Paul’s lips at his reply. Before he knew what was happening, Paul had taken his hand into his own again and was pulling him up from the sofa and onto his two feet with surprising strength that left John no choice but to follow him.

“Perfect! When you know how to dance, you dance. Come on, indulge me, won’t you,” Paul said and behind him he could hear Cédric and Olivier laugh as he unceremoniously dragged John with him onto the dance floor, despite his lover’s weak, stammered protests, and before he knew it he was standing in between two men with Paul before him, that same mischievous grin still on his lips and a glimmer in his eye that looked more than a little triumphant.

“You cannot come to a ball without dancing at least once, John. Now, I assume you only know the men’s part, so I’ll take the women’s part again,” he said, and John wanted to object again, but before he could, the music had already started, forcing him to participate against his will.

The dancing was not as bad as John had feared it would be, and slowly he started to relax as he felt how Paul began to lead despite having the woman’s part, guiding him through the song and the many different steps that were part of the complicated dance they were doing, while occasionally whispering instructions into his ear when he was close enough. To his luck, the musicians had started a slower song than the previous one Paul had danced to, allowing John to keep up with the steps and the tempo of the music, reducing his awkward stumbling to a bare minimum of four or five times per minute, as he tried to remember the dancing lessons Mimi had given him by force when he turned fifteen. Paul, however, did not seem to mind his stumbling, appearing more amused by his mistakes than anything as he smiled at him whenever he noticed one and occasionally let out a giggle when he did something especially stupid, and tried his best to help him.

He looked gorgeous as he danced, an almost continuous smile on his face as he watched him move, taking in the sight of him with an appreciative look of his own, his eyes sparkling almost green in the strange light that lit up the room whenever he met his eyes, and John smiled back at him as he felt his hand tremble as Paul held it. His other hand, he let brush over the other’s waist whenever he turned away from him, a touch not necessary for the dance itself, but as long as Paul did not complain, John hardly cared what he was and was not supposed to do.

He could hardly look away from him at all, his hands twitching with the urge to grab him and pull him to him for a kiss, wanting to hear him shriek in surprise before his voice would die down and he would give into him, his slender fingers coming up to caress his cheek and push his hair back with a gentle pull as John would wrap his arms around his waist and hold him close. He could see it happening before him, and for a moment he thought about actually doing it, to kiss Paul right there and then in the middle of the dance floor, but before he had had time to act, the song had already come to an end and the two of them broke apart to bow and applaud the band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:   
> Monsieur McCartney! Vous êtes là!: Mr. McCartney! You came! 
> 
> Olivier. Ravi de vous revoir…: Olivier. It’s good to see you again. How are you? 
> 
> Très bien, merci. Je dois…: I am very well, thank you. I have to say, I could hardly believe it when Cédric told me he had spoken with you this morning. And who is this gentleman you have brought along? 
> 
> Voici John Lennon…: This is John Lennon, a friend of mine.
> 
> Excusez-moi? Voulez-vous danser?: Excuse me? Would you like to dance?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I've started some new courses at university, I'll be posting this fic on Mondays from now on, kind of like a little reward for you guys for starting the new week and getting through the first day of it. Mondays are horrible, so I hope this will make it a little better. I also hope updates will be more regular now, but I cannot promise anything. I hope so, though :)

Waking up that Friday morning, the sun itself having only just risen above the numerous rooftops that made up the view from the bedroom window of the McCartney’s Parisian apartment, Paul felt a strange sense of unease in his stomach, though he could not think of anything that could be the cause. Sitting up, he looked out of the window as he took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. It was looking to be another good day with warm weather and a soft breeze to make it more temperate and, in his opinion, more pleasant, the lace curtains swaying in the gentle wind, giving him glimpses of the clear blue sky that was hidden behind them, still coloured golden from the light of the morning sun. Beside him, John still lay vast asleep, his lips slightly parted as he slept, his breathing slow and gentle, and his eyelids twitching as he dreamed of what Paul hoped were pleasant and fantastical things. One of his arms lay slung across Paul’s lap with his fingers tangled into the rough material of his sleeping shirt to keep him close. Paul smiled down at him as he ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it aside, while being careful not to awaken him, before he lay back down and rolled onto his side to face him.

Sighing, he put the unpleasant feeling down to a dream he had most likely forgotten, and gently traced the older man’s features with his fingertips, feeling the slight scrape of a stubble on his jaw as he traced his jawline. John’s hand, triggered by the feeling of someone else’s touch on his skin, untangled itself from his shirt and grabbed at Paul’s hip, pulling him closer until they were touching as he mumbled something incomprehensible in his sleep, causing Paul to snicker as he gave into him and placed a gentle kiss on the man’s nose, before laying his head back down on his pillow. Closing his eyes, he listened to the soothing sound of the other’s breathing and relished the feeling of his warm body against his own, his fingers moving on their own accord, reluctant to stop touching him and let him rest.

The last couple of days with John had been pure joy for the both of them, and Paul regretted the day they would need to put an end to it and go on with their usual, ordinary lives, pretending to be nothing more but acquaintances while John would finish his portrait - which Paul suspected could not take much longer - until their meetings would stop and they would most likely never see each other again, separated by society’s norms and expectations - his father’s expectations. Sighing, he drew closer to the man beside him, nudging his forehead with his own and wishing, though he knew it was in vain, that for once he would not need to.

The body beside him stirred. Paul refused to open his eyes as he heard him groan and murmur to himself, his body turning and twisting as he awoke, wanting to remain the way they were a little while longer in the hope he could, even for a moment, stop time. John rubbed his forehead against his and his fingers tightened their hold on his hips, his nails digging into his skin through the thin material of his sleeping attire. His voice, too, became more substantial, the incomprehensible sounds transforming into babbles and finally into words as he opened his eyes, muttering something about walking and pretty fingers before he said Paul’s name, which made the owner of that name smile. Feeling the other’s gaze upon him, Paul opened his eyes as well and smiled as he looked directly into those dark amber crystals that were focused upon him.

“Good morning to you,” John muttered, his voice rough and hoarse with sleep, which caused the little hairs on Paul’s arms to stand up straight.

“Good morning,” he answered. For a moment they did not speak and only looked at each other, John still recovering from his sleep as he drew circles on his lover’s hip with his thumb, while Paul felt little for breaking a peaceful moment like this now he had it, those moments having become rarer and rarer as he had grown with age. After a few moments, John released his hip and reached for his hand instead, grasping it tightly and clutching it against his chest before turning and rolling over onto his other side, dragging said hand with him as he did so, which left Paul with no other choice but to curl himself up around John’s back, slotting himself against him perfectly as he caught onto the hint. He smiled as he snuggled up to him and buried his nose in his hair, feeling perfectly content.

Although he had not expected it at first from the man’s rougher and more hardened exterior, John had proved to be very fond of cuddling, or even just touching in general, and it had only been on the rare occasion that Paul had not found himself curled up with him in bed, both at sunset and at dawn, with a smile on his lips. It had been a pleasant surprise and he was more than happy to oblige him like now. After a while, however, when the sleep had left him completely, he began to grow restless and nosed his way to the crook of the other man’s neck to suckle at his skin to tempt his interest.

“John?” he whispered, chuckling as he let out a soft grumble in reply, still drowsy with sleep and feeling little to change their situation. Paul repeated his name, not being one to give up so easily, and rolled his hips against John’s backside to show his intentions. “John, love?”

“Hmm… you are insatiable,” John murmured in return, keeping his eyes closed, but Paul sensed a smile as he started dragging his lips up to kiss along the man’s jawline, feeling how his lips got caught on the roughness of his two days’ worth of stubble. Paul was aware he had not shaved himself yesterday when they had opted to remain in bed for the entirety of the morning before going out for luncheon and to visit an art gallery, though he couldn’t say he necessarily disliked it, the scrape of a beard reminding him that he lay in bed with a man, not a boy or a woman, but a man, which he hadn’t felt as clearly since his short-lived affair with his father’s acquaintance. It was a turn on.

“Is that a complaint?” he crooned, his lips lingering at said stubble, and smirking as John let out a huff in frustration, being well-aware he was unable to agree with such a question in fear of bereaving himself of the pleasurable activity that was being offered to him now, remembering last time when he had answered a likewise question with a teasing positive only to have his partner mutter an apology as he stood up from where he had been sat in the other’s lap, after which he had refused to come back to him for a whole hour, saying he would not want to pressure him into doing anything he did not want to do. It had been amusing to Paul at the time, who had taken pleasure in seeing him worked up and frustrated, but the humour had - quite understandably - been lost on John.

“Merely an observation,” he said in the end, and Paul chuckled as he suckled at his jaw, working his way further up towards his mouth for a morning kiss, to which John replied with a pleased hum to encourage him on. “Didn’t we have somewhere to be this morning?”

“Yes, but we still have time,” Paul said, closing his eyes as he kissed the side of John’s mouth, and he cried out when he felt John grab a hold of him and roll them over so he had him on his back. John himself was hovering above him and had one of his knees firmly planted onto the bed between Paul’s legs, keeping them apart as he stared down at him, watching him with an eager twinkle in his eye as the man beneath him continued to laugh.

“In that case,” John said, shooting the other a wink, and before Paul had even had time to calm down or wonder what he was going to do next, he bent down to kiss him, finding the other’s lips eager and responsive to his own as he captured them and kissed them tenderly, his touches calm and teasing, which coaxed a weak moan from his lips. Paul, happy with the result of his endeavours and eager for more, smiled against John’s mouth and tried to ignore the unpleasant taste of John’s morning breath as he reached up to tangle his fingers into his hair, giving it a little pull in encouragement, before he let out another soft moan as one of John’s hands, rough and calloused from his craft, travelled down his chest and stomach and came to rest on his crotch, feeling the shape of his growing erection beneath the material of his underwear with curious fingers as they followed the outline of it, stimulating it and urging it on with light, barely-there touches that seemed to be twice as effective, causing the young man to squirm under his touch.

Before it could grow into anything more, however, they were rudely interrupted by someone knocking on the bedroom door, causing both men to jerk up, their heated thoughts, touches and passions quickly being lost as they stared at the door, waiting for the other to react.

“Mr. McCartney, sir?” an unfamiliar voice called as they tapped once more at the door. “Mr. McCartney, a letter has arrived for you. Presumably, from your father.”

Paul, sighing at the interruption, began to sit up and John followed his movements, kneeling over him and sliding down his body as Paul began to untangle himself from him and got out of bed, grabbing one of the robes that he had hung over the back of a nearby chair that previous evening, which he pulled on and tied securely around his waist before padding over to the door to open it, looking unashamed as the door was opened and the eye of the man behind the door caught sight of John who still lay on the bed, his cheeks slightly flushed with what anyone could guess was arousal, making the nature of their relationship more than clear. The unknown man blinked a few times at the sight, before pulling himself back together and turning to Paul to offer him the aforementioned letter without making a single comment on it.

“This arrived for you with the post today, Mr. McCartney. From your father. We thought you might appreciate it if we handed it to you as soon as possible.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr…?”

“It was no trouble, sir,” the man replied and with one last nod at Paul, he turned around and disappeared again, leaving the two men alone once more. Closing the door behind him, Paul remained lingering by the door as he studied the letter curiously before opening it with trembling fingers, fearing what his father might want to contact him for. His father never wrote him or Mike when they were away from home, especially not when he knew they were to return home within a few weeks - if not days - and Paul could barely remember the last time his father had written him anything. Of course, he had his suspicions on what the subject of the letter might be, but those thoughts did little to assuage Paul’s worries. If anything, they heightened them, for he doubted it could be anything good if he could not wait a few days longer to tell him. He took a deep breath before he unfolded it and began to read.

“What does it say?” John asked after Paul had read the letter over twice, but he was unable to look away from it, feeling how his throat constricted at the words of his father.  

“He wants me to return home as soon as possible,” he finally managed to say.

“Why?”

“He doesn’t specify,” Paul lied, swallowing thickly as he folded the letter up and placed it inside the envelope safely in the inside breast-pocket of his coat which hung on a hanger in front of the mirror, away from view. “We will leave this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?! I thought we wouldn’t leave until tomorrow evening at the earliest,” John objected, sitting up on the bed, feeling little for returning to England, and Paul found himself smiling at the thought.

“And now we will leave one day earlier,” he said and sighed as he walked back to the bed and sat down besides the older man, reaching out for his hand, which John abruptly pulled away from him. Looking up in surprise, he found John looking at him in disbelieve. “What?”

“You are seriously going to leave one day early because your father asked you to do so in a letter?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow, and scoffed when Paul nodded in response.

“John, my father-” Paul started, but John did not let him continue.  

“ _Your father_ does not even know you have received this letter today, so why not wait until tomorrow? One more day wouldn’t matter, would it?”

“It is not so simple, John.”

“Isn’t it?” John asked, looking at the young gentleman with a intense gaze, but Paul did not give into it, and sighed once more as he got off from the bed and started gathering his clothes, before making his way towards the bathroom, refusing to look or speak with John, who remained confused on the bed. “Paul?”

“I don’t want to leave either, John, but we have to and therefore we will this afternoon. Now, get dressed. Mr. Arpin is expecting us for tea. It would be rude to be late.”

***

Neither of them mentioned the letter again after their conversation, both men knowing it wouldn’t do either of them any good, seeing as Paul, being stubborn as he was, would get his way no matter what John would say in the attempt to change his mind; once Paul had gotten an idea in his head, it was no use trying to get it out of him again, as the young gentleman would simply ignore every word that was in disagreement with his own thoughts and ideas. This, combined with John’s temper, would only lead to a heated argument, which neither of them wanted to happen. So, neither said a word about it as they drove across the city to their last appointment before they would travel back to England and leave the blissful freedom of Paris far behind them.

To pass the time, John had taking out his notebook again and was sketching in silence while Paul hummed a soft tune to himself as he watched him, intrigued to see him work on something he wasn’t the subject of. Once the carriage came to a halt, Paul got out first, carrying a leather satchel with John’s best work, and offered John his hand to help him step outside as well, which John gladly took. Paul then handed John his satchel back and went to pay the driver, before they approached the Parisian townhouse on the left side of the street that bore number eleven. They had barely rung the bell or the door was pulled wide open, revealing an older man in his fifties, with greying hair and a sunken in face that made him appear even skinnier than he already was. He had a wide smile on his face, a flush on his cheeks, and a pair of shiny spectacles on his nose; John could hardly recognise him as the same man he had met at The Salon during their first night in the city.

“Mr. McCartney, Mr. Lennon, come in sirs, come in,” he said, his voice surprisingly youthful for a man of his age, and stepped aside to let the two young men into his home with a polite nod. As soon as they were inside, he closed the door behind them, reached out to shake their hands and kissed Paul on the cheek, engulfing him in the potent smell of alcohol. “I am so pleased you two have taken me up on my invitation. After what had happened at The Salon, I would not have blamed either of you if you hadn’t. Come in, please. I have asked my maid to put on some tea for us,” Mr. Arpin continued, urging them to take off their coats, which they swiftly did, allowing Mr. Arpin to hang them from a peg as they had a look around their environment.

Mr. Arpin’s apartment was small, consisting of two small drawing rooms on either side of the hallway, one of which was used as a permanent atelier on the walls of which hung numerous paintings from many different artists. At the back, there was a dining room and a kitchen, and upstairs there were two bedrooms and a bathroom, one of which was currently used as a study. Paul groaned as he noticed said maid coming out of the atelier carrying two empty bottles of wine.

“Are you not married, Mr. Arpin?” he heard John ask beside him, but the man seemed not to take offence at the question and merely laughed as he nodded and guided them further into the house and through a large archway, which lead into one of the drawing rooms where he offered them both a seat.

“My wife prefers the countryside, I am afraid, so she’d much rather stay there than come to London with me. I move between the two as much as I can,” he explained and smiled at them both as he clasped his hands together, “Now, if you two would excuse me, I will see how the tea is coming along.”

“He is a cheery fellow, isn’t he?” John asked as soon as the man had left them alone, turning to Paul, who was biting his nail with a worried expression on his face.

“He is a nice man, generally,” he said as he glanced at John, pausing for a moment to consider if and how to continue, “the relationship with his wife, however, is not as happy as he lets on. But if I had known how bad his drinking habits had become…”

“He is not one of your old lovers, then, is he?” John inquired, smirking as Paul burst out laughing as he shook his head, the idea alone being far too absurd to even take seriously.

“Mr. Arpin is a good man, John, but I have my types and he is not one of them, not to mention that he is ever so slightly too old for me, even by my standards. And besides, he likes his women,” he said, still chuckling, and the emphasis he deliberately put on the last of sentences told John more than he needed to know about their host and possibly about the nature of his disagreements with his wife, which John knew for certain were not just about London. A twinkle in his eye, however, told Paul that was not the thing that interested him.

“I didn’t know you even had a type, Paul, not to mention standards,” he taunted and Paul gasped at the insinuation, shaking his head and playfully hitting John, before turning away with a pout.

“How dare you say such a thing!” he said, but he could not help but smile when John leaned in to kiss his cheek as a silent apology, which Paul opted to accept by turning his head to kiss him properly, to which John responded with a little smirk of his own and a pleased hum. They had  barely separated when Mr. Arpin joined them again, followed closely behind by his maid, carrying a tray with three tea cups, a teapot, and a saucer with some biscuits, which she put down onto the coffee table between the two couches and poured it out for them, as Mr. Arpin sat himself down on the couch opposite the two young men. As soon as the maid had finished, she left them with a polite nod, leaving the three men alone to their business.

“Now, Mr. Lennon,” Mr. Arpin spoke as he took one of the cups and blew lightly into it to cool its contents, an example which the other two men quickly followed, “I hope you don’t mind it if I skip the pleasantries. You have brought your work with you, I take it?” John glanced nervously at Paul, who nodded encouragingly at him as he noticed their nervous look on his face. In truth, he had not expected any differently: from the moment they had received Mr. Arpin’s invitation for tea two days ago, John had shown a great reluctance to go, not wanting to be disparaged once more by the same person as the last time he had shown his work to anyone who was supposedly an expert, and even when Paul had assured him Mr. Arpin wouldn’t waste his time on someone who he didn’t think had potential, he had initially refused to come with him. Sex, however, Paul had soon found, was a great instrument of persuasion, especially when combined with some light teasing about him being a coward, which, of course, he had not meant. Not terribly, at least. Still, he could understand his lover’s nervousness and had tried his best to make John feel better about his art, but, as he could see now, the rejection at The Salon had left a lasting impression on him.

“Yes, I made sure to also bring some other works than those you had already seen at the gallery last Monday,” John finally spoke as he placed his tea back down onto the coffee table and reached down to pick up his satchel, which he opened in a hurry in the hope neither Paul nor Mr. Arpin would see the trembling of his fingers, and produced a couples of sketches and finished works, which he handed to Mr. Arpin with a weak smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Lennon. And my apologies for my behaviour then. Or rather, that of my colleagues. Mr. Deniau can be rather rash in his judgements. He certainly did not speak upon my behalf, I would have you know,” Mr. Arpin said as he put his tea down as well and slowly went through the stack of art works, going over them one by one and taking his time. Paul nudged John’s side at the man’s words and offered him a wide smile as John looked at him, feeling rather taken aback by the nervousness that was written all over his face. He wished he could do something for him, but he knew nothing would put him at ease until he had heard some form of praise fall from the lips of Mr. Arpin. Paul thought it was rather cute in a sense.

He wished, though, that Mr. Arpin would not take as long with examining John’s work as he was, as he could see the anxiety on John’s face grow with every minute that passed by without any kind of opinion being uttered by the older man. He himself wasn’t feeling much better, hoping for John’s sake, as well as that of his own reputation as art lover and collector, that his work would be better received than last time, and he listened attentively as John answered all of Mr. Arpin’s questions on his works, his techniques, his use of colour and light, and style, as well as what his intentions were with his works. Finally, after much longer than Paul’s nerves had been able to properly endure, Mr. Arpin cleared his throat and handed John his work back.

“So,” Paul asked, ignoring the dryness of his throat, “what do you think?”

“The boy,” Mr. Arpin started, pausing to take a sip from his tea that had nearly gone cold in the course of his conversation with John, which Paul supposed he did on purpose to add to the already present tension in the room, “the boy certainly has potential. If he can prove himself and make a name for himself in the art world, that is up to him, but he has enough talent and skill to have a likely chance. I am glad you brought some of your other works as well, though, Mr. Lennon, because I can see now Mr. Deniau had been terribly wrong about you.”

“You genuinely like it?” John inquired, hardly believing his ears, and reached besides him to take Paul’s hand, which Paul was swift to pull away.

“Oh yes! Your style is something I have not seen often before, and I think that is what made Mr. Deniau dislike your work as much as he did, but I like it. It is… different, daring, honest. I would love to take you on and see what I can do for you, if Mr. McCartney would let me, of course. After all, he is the one who brought you to my attention.” At this, both men turned to Paul with eager faces, and Paul, smiling at the eagerness in John’s expression that he had not seen there before, waved carelessly with his hand as he gave into them, in response to which Mr. Arpin clasped his hands together again in youthful excitement.

“How wonderful. Now, Mr. Lennon, if you would be so kind to leave some of your works with me, I will stay in touch with you through Mr. McCartney and inform you if anything happens that you need to know about. What do you gentlemen say?”

“John would be more than happy to leave you with some of his work, Mr. Arpin. And we are both very thankful to you for this,” Paul said, and finished his tea, before nudging John to do the same, which he did.

“Fantastic. And I should be thanking you. Now, how about we celebrate with a glass of wine? I am sure I have some lying around here somewhere,” he said, but Paul was quick to refuse, shaking his head and offering their host a polite smile as he got up from the couch.

“No, thank you, Mr. Arpin. John and I have to leave for England I’m afraid. But thank you for the kind offer,” he said and Mr. Arpin stared up at him for a short while, clearly disappointed, before he nodded and got up as well, offering first Paul and then John his hand.

“Of course, I understand. It was good to see you both. And Mr. Lennon, if there is anything I need you to know, I will contact you through Mr. McCartney, as I have said,” he said and John and Paul thanked him once more, before they started to make their way into the hallway, where they pulled on their coats and said goodbye, and not five minutes later they were once again outside, John’s satchel considerably lighter.

***

John and Paul spoke eagerly as they made their way back to the apartment, discussing what had transpired at Mr. Arpin’s and what this meant for John’s potential future career with a mixed sense of excitement and nervousness, especially on John’s side. They would be picked up at the apartment at three by Paul’s driver, which only left them with an hour to pack and eat a quick lunch if they hurried, but neither felt much for getting a cab to drive them, preferring to take their time and walk, relishing the Parisian sun and air one last time before they would have to leave for England, where they knew the weather wouldn’t be as good. Paul knew, however, he didn’t have a choice, and tried not to think about it by focusing on his conversation with John as much as he could.

“I cannot believe he actually approved of my work,” John muttered seemingly out of nowhere after they had discussed when and where his first exhibition needed to be – hypothetically, of course - as they came near to the Seine, which meant they were getting close. Instead of walking along it, however, Paul guided John into a quiet backstreet where they could talk in relative silence.

“Of course, he did. I told you, you have talent! I don’t say that about simply anyone, John.”

“But what if he changes his mind? Or if everyone else disagrees with him?” John pressed on, his pace slowing as worry began to take over his mind. Attempting to soothe his fears, Paul took a hold of his hand and squeezed it reassuringly before bringing it up to his lips to kiss.

“You will be fine, John. I know it,” he said, kissing his hand again and John smiled at that as he nodded and forced himself to relax by taking a deep breath. They walked on for a little while longer, mostly in silence as John contemplated his future and how he was going to tell his aunt when they would be back in England in a few days, while Paul’s mind was inevitably drawn back to his father’s letter. He had been so deep in thought that he had barely noticed it when John suddenly stopped, his hand falling from Paul’s grip as Paul went on a few more paces before stopping as well.

“John?” he asked, turning around to see him staring at him with a calculating gaze, seeming deep in contemplation, “John, are you alright?”

“What are we, Paul?” John merely asked, his voice suddenly dull and tight, as he remained where he was. Paul chuckled at the man’s odd behaviour, unsure what to reply to his question.

“We will be late if we keep stalling,” he joked, but John did not laugh and shook his head as he walked over to Paul, moving slowly, step after step, and stopping right in front of him.

“No, I mean…” he started, but paused a while as he bit his lip, thinking of how to continue, “what are we? Once we are back in England, what is going to happen to us?”

“John-”

“I know we will have to end this eventually, seeing as you’re going to get married sooner rather than later, but I though…” he fell silent again at the last, his sentence broken, and Paul considered at him for a moment. He had given this exact issue more thought than he was willing to admit, and yet he did not know the answer to John’s question. At first he hadn’t even meant to start this affair and after that, he had quickly decided it would end once they would return to England, but now it was finally happening….

“Maybe we don’t need to end this now, John,” he said and John looked up at him in surprise, for which Paul could not blame him as he was rather surprised with what he was saying as well, “maybe we could continue this, while it lasts. I am not to marry yet, and we will see each other for the portrait anyway, so perhaps we could… If that is what you would want, of course. I mean, it is just sex, right? No harm done?”

“Right,” John agreed, furrowing his brown, “just sex.” He forced a smile and nodded his agreement, which Paul answered with a smile of his own.

“Come on,” he said, reaching out his hand for John to take, “we’d better hurry or we’ll be late.”

“God forbid that we would make Mr. McCartney senior wait one minute longer than absolutely necessary,” John muttered, but he took his hand anyway, so Paul didn’t say anything of it, secretly finding it rather funny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter in Paris...


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of a chapter last week, but I couldn't finish it in time, and because I wanted to get back on a more fixed schedule, I decided to take my time with it and post it this week instead. I wanted to update this yesterday, but my internet stopped working all of a sudden, so I'm posting it now instead. 
> 
> I hope you'll like it and don't be afraid to leave kudos and comment :)

It was already dark by the time the carriage drove through the gate and over the sloping gravel pathway that lead up to the large manor house that was nestled comfortably in the landscape further up the hill, the colouring trees having spread their leaves over the yellowing field that lay around it, which complemented the warm glow of the stone exterior walls of the building. The chill in the air was already hinting at the winter that was fast approaching and the warm light of gas lamps, fireplaces and candles that shone through some of the many windows that Paul was already able to see from the carriage despite the long distance, promised a warmth and a comfort that now proved to be not as easily accessible as it had once been. **  
**

As the carriage drove further up towards the building, Paul found himself musing over the last couple of days that he and John had spent together, travelling back from Paris to Liverpool, a journey that had gone rather too smoothly in his opinion, an opinion that he knew John shared. Although they had done barely anything more than sleep, eat, read, and talk, it had been nice to spend some more time together now they had still been able to, and Paul fondly remembered the numerous times he had either fallen asleep or woken up with his head resting on the other man’s soft chest, while John had his arms wrapped around him, holding him close and refusing to let him go again either until he fell asleep himself or Paul insisted he would relieve himself on him if he had to. It had been a pleasant couple of days, and Paul felt sad to think those days were now over; even if they had decided to continue whatever it was they had together, doing what they had done in Paris and living the way they had was not a possibility for them anymore. He wished the carriage had broken down, or that they had been captured by a storm, rendering them unable to travel for a couple days and lengthening the time they had together, but they had not been so lucky, and now he was here again, home, alone.

The carriage halted abruptly half-way down the path, causing Paul to tumble forward in his seat and land face-first into the bench opposite him, tearing him away from his thoughts. The horses pulling the carriage neighed in fright, startled by something in the dark, and Paul could hear the coachmen trying to sooth them, gently calling at them in a soft voice and urging them to calm down with promises that it was alright, before the man started to shout profanities at whatever it was that had caused the horses to startle as they had. It appeared, for as far as Paul could judge from inside the carriage, to be a man or a boy, for he could hear some inaudible whimpering and muttering of apologies that were rudely overpowered by the loud booming voice of the angry coachman, making it hard for Paul to make out who he was yelling at, or even what he was yelling about, the man being incomprehensible in his anger. Paul, picking himself up and straightening out his clothes and hair as he made sure he hadn’t hurt himself, grumbled some curses before he pushed the carriage door open and jumped down to see what was the matter and to keep his coachman from hurting anyone if necessary.

“Sir! Are you alright, sir? My apologies. The horses…” the coachman started as soon as he heard the carriage door slam shut, but he swallowed down the rest of his words as soon as Paul raised his hand to motion him to keep silent and he walked over to them as he buttoned up his coat to shield himself from the cold.

“Yes, Miles. Thank you. Now, who has-“ he started, but before he could finish his own sentence the man or boy – Paul could not make him out properly in the surrounding darkness – cried out his name and scrambled up from where he had fallen onto the muddy ground, and hurried over to him with a surprising eagerness that neither he nor Miles had expected. Startled, Paul took a step back on instinct, unsure what the stranger might do to him. It was only when the person in question was about five feet away from him that Paul recognised his friend.

“Paul! You are back! I had hoped you would be,” George exclaimed, clasping Paul’s hand tightly in his own as a bright smile spread across his face that reached all the way to his eyes, which shimmered with happiness and something else that Paul had a hard time pinning down. Empathy? Relief? Worry? He wanted to ask, but George did not give him the chance. Releasing his hand, the man glanced back towards the manor, eyeing it for a brief moment with what seemed like suspicion, before he turned back to his friend and pulled him closer by his shoulder, turning them away from the coachman, who was watching the pair curiously as he petted the horses, which were trampling about restlessly.

“Your father has been waiting for you,” George said, lowering his voice to something barely louder than a whisper, “I thought you might appreciate it if you knew about this beforehand, which is why I was waiting for you - the horses spooked when I tried to stop the carriage - but I heard your father saying to Matthews that as soon as you were home, he was to bring you to him, no matter the time. ”

“When was this?” Paul enquired, though not surprised by the news.

“Two days ago. I have been watching out for you since then; benefit of being a gardener I suppose, no one notices you. Ever since he has received the news that the Ashers were coming here from London, he has been impatient to see you home again. He’s been rather… irritable, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“He is not ill-tempered, is he?”

“Oh no. Quite the contrary! He has been very eager to see you again. Excited even, I would say. But as you were Paris… It makes him impatient, which is not a good thing for servants like us, either, as you can imagine,” he said with a small grimace, hoping for some sympathy, but Paul had other things on in his mind that were more pressing to him.

“And the Ashers?” he asked, “they are not here yet, are they?”

George shook his head. “They won’t be here until tomorrow morning at the earliest. But of course your father wanted you to be here before then. It would have been improper if you had not been here to welcome Miss Asher in person, seeing as your engagement is the reason for their visit in the first place. Your father was very worried about that,” he explained and Paul nodded as the thought it over, gnawing his teeth.

“Thank you, George,” he said after a while, and George nodded back at him as he squeezed his shoulder in an encouraging manner, wishing him good-luck, before he pulled away from his friend.

“I am certain your father will be most pleased to see you again, Paul. He cares about you more than you think,” he said and Paul smiled thankfully at him, hoping he was right.

“I will come and visit you and Pattie soon. I am sorry I haven’t been a better friend. It’s just… with everything that has been happening lately…,” he said, but George waved the apology away with a smile and a shake of his head.

“Just come and visit us soon. Pattie will greatly appreciate it, as will I. And don’t worry about talking to your father about that raise I asked you about. I know this is not the best time for you to ask him any favours like that, and I can do it myself-”

“No, George. I promised I would help you with that, and so I will, and no, this is not up for discussion. I’ll talk to him for you after the Ashers have arrived. He should be more agreeable then. It’s the least I could do for you two,” Paul insisted, smiling at his friend, who smiled back thankfully, seeming relieved to hear that. Paul was not surprised; he knew as good as anyone else how intimidating his father could be.

“Thanks, Paul. I really appreciate it. Just come by whenever you have time. You’re always welcome, you know that,” he said and with that the two friends wished each other a good evening. Paul promised he would visit them sometime this week, depending on how business with the Ashers would go, hopefully with good news, and George wished him luck, before the former stepped back into the carriage to continue the last of the way up to the manor, leaving the latter to walk home alone beneath the calming light of the moon, and to admire the gardens he worked so hard to maintain.

***

Despite the late hour, it appeared most inhabitants of the manor had not yet retired for the evening, nor did it seem that the Fishwicks had gone back home either, as the first people Paul met as he stepped inside, the large door falling shut behind him with a loud thud that echoed through the hallway, were his brother and his fiancé who stood conversing on the balcony on the first floor, their arms resting on the railing, their fingers intertwined. Both of them glanced down at the sound of the door falling shut and Mike’s eyes lit up as they met his brother’s.

“Paul! You are home. How was Paris?” he called out, pushing himself away from the railing to start making his way down the stairs to greet his brother, beckoning Miss Fishwick to come with him, who followed obediently, her eyes on the older McCartney brother.

“As pleasant as a couple of days’ journey in a carriage can be,” Paul replied with a smile directed at them both and began to take off his hat and coat, which he handed to one of the servants who came over to assist him. As soon as his hands were free, he was pulled into a hug by his brother, causing a nervous chuckle to escape his throat from surprise. His brother’s next words did little to calm him down, sadly, his stomach churning at the prospect of having to see his father, never mind the news that the Ashers were coming no later than tomorrow. John was the only word that echoed in his mind.

“I hope you have enjoyed yourself at least. And before I forget, father wanted to speak with you as soon as you got home. He is in his study, I believe. I assume you heard the news about the Ashers? They will arrive tomorrow,” Mike said as he released him, repeating those exact words that kept haunting his thoughts, and Paul nodded to tell him that he already knew as he kissed Miss Fishwick’s hand to greet her as well, more to make sure he did not have to speak, than to be polite. He forced himself to smile when Miss Fishwick congratulated him on his engagement.

“I didn’t even know you were engaged, sir. Before Mike told me the Ashers were coming tomorrow, I mean. Naturally, I would have congratulated you before if I had,” she said, raising an eyebrow in surprise when Paul shook his head at her words and told her not to be silly.

“What my brother means, darling,” Mike quickly explained, noticing her surprise, “the match was agreed upon years ago under reservation. Nothing is official yet, though most did not think the marriage would not pull through, and they seem now to have been right.”

“Oh, I see. Well, she is a lovely woman, Miss Asher. I am sure she will make you very happy. Very beautiful, she is, and accomplished, of course,” Miss Fishwick said and Paul forced another smile at the praise, before he excused himself, saying he should probably not keep their father waiting any longer if he is so eager to see him, and - to his relief - Miss Fishwick and Mike nodded in understanding. They wished him goodnight before leaving him, and Miss Fishwick was quick to add some more praises on Miss Asher’s behalf, which Paul knew was well intended, but did not make him feel any better. Once he was certain he was alone again, he took a deep breath to force his body to calm down, and quickly fixed his appearance before he started making his way towards his father’s study.

***

As expected, Paul found his father where his brother had told him he would be, sitting behind his desk, writing what appeared to be letters with a single gaslight burning on the wall beside him, illuminating him in a faint shimmer of orange light that caused the smile that appeared on his face as he looked up to see his eldest son stepping inside the study, to appear more disconcerting than it was presumably meant.

“You’re home! I’m so glad you are. I hope your trip was pleasant?” he asked as he offered his son a seat, his voice too cheery for Paul’s liking, but he took the invitation anyway, feeling glad to be able to sit down for a moment. Before he had even had the time to answer his father, the latter had already poured him a glass of whiskey, which he slid towards him over the desk. “We have something to celebrate tonight,” Jim continued as he caught his son staring questioningly at the glass.

“Something to celebrate? I thought you said I had three months to find myself a wife before it would come to this?” Paul asked, looking up at his father in surprise, who sighed deeply as he put the bottle of whiskey, which he had been using to pour himself a glass as well, back down. He considered his son for a moment, before he spoke.

“In truth, Paul, this was not my idea. You know I want you to marry someone you actually care about, and though I know how fond you and Miss Asher are of one another, I also know she is not the woman you would want to marry-”

“I would not marry any woman, if it was up to me,” Paul muttered softly, though audible enough for his father to hear. He, however, chose to ignore his words, and merely glanced up into his eyes for a moment with a warning look, before he continued. Paul was unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

“-but she is a very accomplished, not to mention beautiful, young lady, who would make a good wife, and when her father wrote me concerning your engagement-”

“We are not yet engaged,” Paul protested again, and again, his words were ignored.

“-I could not decline him. He wishes for you to marry Jane sooner rather than later. I asked him to postpone for three months, but he is set on it, Paul. I know I told you three months, but… we both know you will choose for Miss Asher eventually,” his father finally finished and Paul picked up his glass to take a sip, unsure what to say in return, as he knew his father was right. If there was one woman he would marry, it was Jane. She was beautiful, smart, creative, free-spirited, kind, not to mention the fact that they had been friends since he had been about nine years old and she five; their mothers had been close acquaintances and Jane has often frequented the McCartney manor before Mary McCartney had passed away, and in those early years they had grown close. She knew him better than anyone and to a certain extent he did love her, but to marry her… that was a different question.

“You know that under normal circumstances I would keep my word. I want you to be happy.” Then don’t make me marry someone I don’t love - Paul thought, but he bit his tongue, knowing very well how quick his father’s emotional state could change, and in his mind, marrying him off to some well-off girl was the best for him, for the family, for the estate. He swallowed the lump that had been gathering in his throat and nodded. Besides, his father was right, he would have chosen for her eventually, and she would have chosen him.

“I know, father. I will marry her. You are right, she is the one I would have chosen anyway, putting it off won’t do any good,” he said, forcing the corners of his lips to curl up in a smile, and he let out an actual nervous chuckle as his father reached out for him and slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“You’re a good son, Paul. I am proud of you, you know that, don’t you? I know I don’t always show it, but I do. I just want the best for you,” he said and Paul nodded again but didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out for his glass of whiskey again and raised it for the celebratory toast his father had hinted at at the beginning of their conversation. Jim raised his glass at well and smiled at his son, before they toasted in silence and took a sip of their drink.

Paul could barely think for the remainder of the conversation, his mind working hard to process what impactful changes were now drawing near: an engagement, a wedding, a wife, a couple of children, the last of which he minded the least. He had always wanted to have children, a family, even when he had been young, a couple of kids running around the house, screaming and laughing and playing and being happy and carefree, playing games with them, learning them new things and reading to them before they would go to bed at night, only to climb into his bed a few hours later out of fear of some nightmare they had been having. Even waking up every hour to look after a baby did not scare him off, and he could not wait to see his child make their first steps, or say their first words, and then to see them grow up to be beautiful and accomplished young ladies, or handsome and intelligent young men. Even the concept of a wife did not offend him, someone who would care for him, look after him, and who he could grow old and happy with, someone to share his entire life with and raise those kids, and simply love each other… But Jane was not the person he wanted that with. She could not be that person for him, no matter how lovely she was, for she was simply not the one for him.

He pondered about this as his father told him about the plans for the engagement: it was to last about seven months, and the announcement would be made during a ball that was to be held at the manor itself in a few weeks’ time, after which Jane’s family would stay at the manor for another week or two longer, before they would leave, and Jane would stay behind. The wedding then, would take place in late Spring at the church in Liverpool, after which a honeymoon was to be expected. To where, they could decide for themselves, though there have already been people making suggestions that were worth looking into. Paul hummed something agreeable at every question that his father directed at him, until even his father seemed to come to the conclusion that discussing this now had no point. In the end, he sighed and told Paul to go to bed, for Miss Asher and her family - a very high class family, who had ties even to the royal family - would arrive the following day and Jim expected Paul to be at his best behaviour. Paul nodded in understanding and wished him a good night as well, before he took his leave and went up to his bedroom, which had been well prepared for him, with his bed being freshly made, the curtains drawn, and a fire roaring in the fireplace.  

He locked the door behind him and lit one of the candles that stood by the bed, before undressing and slipping into his sleeping attire that had been hung over the back of his desk chair by one of the servants, and sat down on the small sofa that was placed before the fire, curling up his legs under his bum. He felt exhausted. His muscles hurt even when he did not move, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy, but he fought to keep them open as he stared into the fire. His mind was in a haze, memories and thoughts mixing and sliding over each other, until reality itself became blurred and one last thought remained: John.

The expression on John’s face when he had asked him about their future - the event itself seeming to have happened years ago rather than four days - floated before his eyes; worry, anxiety, hope, and finally happiness when Paul had agreed to continuing their affair… all that was now for nothing. Paul was going to marry Jane Asher, a proper English girl from a well-off family with connections to the royal family, which meant the end for them. He didn’t dare to think how John was going to react to that news. He didn’t even dare think how he was going to tell him in the first place. But he had no choice. It was his father’s wish, it was Jane’s father’s wish, it was his duty, and he had no choice.

Sighing, he looked down at the silver bracelet that encircled his right wrist, the green stones shining in the warm light of the fire, and he gently traced them all with his fingertips, his mind drifting off to the moment John had given it to him - what it different world it now seemed. He turned his wrist, exposing the lock of the bracelet, and started to fiddle with it, moving it into different directions and picking urgently at the different parts until it came free. He removed it completely and studied the bracelet carefully in the light of the fire for a moment, before he got up from the sofa with a groan and shuffled over to his bedside table, where he carefully put the bracelet away in the drawer, keeping it safely stored away. He reasoned it was for the best, and crawled into bed, where, not even five seconds later, he was carried off to restless dreams that barely let him rest.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!! I'm sorry for the lack of fics recently. As those who are following me on my tumblr will know, I was really busy with university and some other stuff and I just really did not have the time or energy to write. But I am back now and I am so glad I can get to write again and post updates for you guys as per usual.
> 
> For those who'd like to know, all my exams, presentations and essays went well, and I've already got some good grades back. 
> 
> Also, happy birthday to to my lovely and wonderful ray of sunshine, Paul, who was born on this day 75 years ago! I love you, sweet darling boy. I wouldn't be the same person without you, your music, and everything you've done for us and this world. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the new chapter. I hope you're going to like it. It's not as action packed, but I think it's still enjoyable. Let me know what you thought! Love you guys! <3 <3

George and Pattie’s home was located at the edge of the McCartney estate, past the woods and alongside a small creek wherein the local children played when they thought their parents weren’t watching, and wherein the dogs washed their mud-covered paws. It was almost a tiny village in itself, separate from the city of Liverpool, with one narrow, cobblestone road snaking and twisting and weaving itself between and around a number of stone cottages, none of which were particularly large and were sometimes shared between two of three families. Most of them had a little green garden at the front, simple but well-kept, where mothers hung the laundry to dry in the warm but weak light of the English sun, and dogs lay snoring before they were awoken by the men and dragged along for business. The odd cat ran past, chasing a mouse, and birds chirped as they flew over or rested on the eaves of the houses where they were safe from the predators on the ground below. At the end of the little street, where it gently transitioned into a dirt road that disappeared over a gentle hill and further into the city, was the smallest of all cottages. It was the cottage of the Harrisons, which they shared with Miss May and her old father, the latter of whom sat sulking in an old rocking chair at the front of the garden by the stone, waist-high wall that bordered it. A few feet away from him, Pattie was pulling the dry laundry from the clothesline and into a laundry basket that stood by her naked feet, her blond hair tied up rather messily and covered by a shawl, and her swollen belly clearly visible in the green dress she was wearing. 

It was still early morning, the sun only having gone up about an hour ago, when it had shone into the bedroom of the eldest McCartney son, who had laid awake in his bed, unable to sleep any more than he had, which hadn’t been long. Not wanting to lie in bed for any longer, he had gotten up as soon as the light had hit his face, put on some simple clothes and decided to go on an early walk to enjoy the morning sun while he still could, taking Martha along with him, who had still been fast asleep at the foot end of the bed. He hadn’t considered visiting George and Pattie until he had found himself walking in the general direction of their home, but now he saw Pattie standing outside, quietly doing the laundry, he knew it had been a good idea. She put the last of the white shirts that Paul supposed were George’s into the basket, and had been about to pick it up when she caught sight of him from the corner of her eye and turned towards him to greet him with a broad, yet careful smile.

“Paul! I didn’t expect to see you here! How are you?” she asked, picking up the basket, which she propped up under her arm, the bottom balancing on her right hip. Her usually sweet face, with stunning blue eyes, rounded cheeks, and round lips that revealed the split between her two front teeth as she smiled, looked uncharacteristically tense, as if she were distrusting of the intention of his visit. But if she preferred to have him leave, she didn’t show it, her uncertain smile being nothing but inviting nonetheless. When he didn’t approach, she beckoned him to come over.

“I am fine, thank you, Pattie. I thought I’d come by and say hi. I know it’s been a while and I promised George I would, so I figured… it’s not a bad time, is it?” Paul asked as he walked over to her, snapping his fingers to indicate Martha to follow him. Pattie’s smile broadened even more and she shook her head as she unlocked the gate for him, allowing him to step inside and kiss her cheek. Martha happily trotted inside after him as well, and laid down in the sun against the cool stone wall of the little cottage, arranging herself in such a manner that as much of her body as possible lay on the cool tiles and her head rested on her paws with as little effort as possible, looking relaxed and pleased with herself. Always loyal and protective of her master, though, she kept her eyes on Paul as he continued to speak with Pattie, in case something were to happen to him, and let out an occasional huff as she rested from their unusual early-morning walk.

“Of course it’s not a bad time,” Pattie said when Paul removed his lips from her cheek, and she gently squeezed his arm in return. “George is busy working inside, but he can come down for a cup of tea. If  you would like that, of course.”  

Paul nodded in response. “That sounds lovely, Pattie. And er… congratulations,” he said, as he let his eyes fall on her rounded belly. Pattie flushed at his words and smiled as her hand unwittingly went to her stomach to rub it tenderly, as if afraid something were to hurt it, before she turned around and ushered him over the small gravel pathway and up to the house, causing Martha to look up in curiosity.

“George is working on the baby’s room,” Pattie explained as she opened the front door and beckoned him inside, and, true to her words, as Paul entered the small cottage he could hear stumbling up on the first floor that did not sound all together promising. “My mother brought us my old crib last week, which he has decided needed some work. It would have been endearing if it wasn’t for the fact that I am constantly worried he’ll hurt himself.”

“He hasn’t yet, has he?” Paul asked, concerned, as he took off his coat and hung it on one of the pegs on the wall. His eyes travelled up the stairs, but it was too dark at the top of it for him to make anything out.

“I haven’t heard him cry out in pain yet, which can’t be anything but positive, although there is the odd curse. I just figure, as long as he isn’t screaming or wailing, he is fine,” Pattie explained, though she looked somewhat unsure about her own reasoning as she nibbled her bottom lip. Paul, however, nodded in agreement, which appeared to put her more at ease. “Could you go upstairs and ask him to come down for tea? I’ll put the kettle on. He’ll be glad to see you.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. I’ll call you when it’s ready,” Pattie said and Paul nodded again as he watched her walk into the kitchen and pull the door shut behind herself, leaving him standing alone in the hallway. Martha, who had walked inside with them, laid down against the front door and licked her paws for a moment before resting her head on the brick flooring and closing her eyes to catch up on her sleep. Paul himself let out a deep sigh, scratched his dog behind her ear, and started to ascend the stairs to the first floor, where he began to hear the soft melodic humming of his friend, which guided him into the direction of a small room at the end of the corridor, the door of which was left ajar. He knocked before slowly pushing it further open.

“George?” he asked, and not long after a loud curse followed. Frowning, Paul pushed the door all the way open to reveal the man in question sitting knelt on the floor by the half-finished crib that stood against the wall, a simple wooden one that looked like it had been assembled and dissembled numerous times over the last fifty or sixty years, holding his thumb in his hand as he sucked on it. A hammer laid dropped on the ground beside his knee, and George was shooting it death glares as he mumbled some inaudible curses at it, the words being obstructed by the thumb in his mouth.

“George? Are you okay?” Paul asked, and hurriedly bit back an amused grin as George turned around to him. The man’s mood, however, cleared substantially at the sight of his friend and he was quick to pull his thumb from his mouth as he scrambled up from the floor, muttering Paul’s name in a faint kind of greeting. He straightened out his clothes before he walked over to pull him into a hug, which Paul awkwardly returned – he never could get used to the freedom with which George regarded him when they were in private.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming,” George said once he had released him and Paul shrugged his shoulders in reply.

“I told you I would visit you and Pattie soon, didn’t I? Besides, I really needed to get away from everyone for a while.”

“The Ashers, right?”

Paul nodded, but didn’t elaborate on it and instead let his eyes fall onto the crib George had been working on. “The crib is coming along well, I see. Pattie told me you were working on it,” he said in a poor attempt to change the subject. George, however, went along with it regardless.

“Slowly but surely. I have never been very good at this kind of handiwork, but it’s necessary, you know? Pattie’s afraid I’ll kill myself, though. Not that I blame her for it. But well…”

Paul hummed in reply and looked around. It was a cosy room, the bedroom they were in, and Paul was certain it would make for a nice nursery once it had been finished. The walls were painted in a cheerful pale yellow, a rather clumsy job, with some of the paint having ended up onto the dark brown ceiling above, and alongside the window hung a short flower-patterned curtain that rested on the windowsill. Besides the crib, the room contained a ragged rug that lay on the wooden floor to soften it, a chest-of-drawers that was placed against the wall opposite the window, onto which some towels and other pieces of cloth lay, probably left there to be stored away later, and a large leather chair that stood beside it, looking comfortable despite its age. In the corner of the room stood an old rocking horse that appeared to be just as old, if not older, as the crib, which made Paul suspect Pattie’s mother had brought them that one too. It would be a cosy little nursery once it was done, and Paul didn’t doubt George and Pattie would prove to be good parents, although the thought of seeing George with a small child in his arms, was still hard for him to imagine and almost made him feel slightly sick. Feeling himself get rather faint, he flopped himself down in the leather chair and closed his eye for a moment.

“Are you feeling okay?” George asked, and Paul shook his head as he listened to the man’s footsteps approaching the crib again. “If you’d like to talk about it…”

“No. No, I simply haven’t slept well the last few days. I never do whilst I’m travelling and now with Jane… I will be fine in a few days,” Paul said, forcing a smile to put the other man at ease. It came out looking, however, like a pained grin, which instead had the opposite effect.

“Paul, you didn’t… you didn’t _do_ anything while you were in Paris, did you?” he asked and Paul groaned at the question, which he ought to have known would come sooner or later.

“George…” he tried, but he continued as he took a couple of steps towards him, while maintaining a polite distance, ever aware of the uneven power relation between them. At the moment, though, it annoyed Paul more than anything else. Not that George appeared to notice.

“Because, Paul, with the engagement between you and Jane about to be made official, you cannot afford-“

“I know, George,” Paul cut in with an exasperated sigh, raising one of his hands to rub at the corners of his eyes in an attempt to lift some tension, but George had not yet finished.

“If anyone were to find out, especially now-“

“I _know_ , Geo,” Paul snapped, cutting George off with more force than what would have been necessary. There was a lingering silence in the room, and Paul could feel that the other man’s eyes were still on him, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge him as he leaned back in his chair, needing some time to collect himself. After another minute or so, he finally opened his eyes again and noticed George had gone back to working on the crib, and was busy hammering the bars into their respective places. When he began to speak, he looked up, but did not pause in his work.

“It’s so strange to imagine this is truly happening, you know. You and Pattie getting a baby together, Mike getting married to Angela, me and Jane getting engaged, officially that is… It’s not that I don’t like her Geo, but…”

“You wish you didn’t have to,” George finished for him and Paul nodded in reply.

“Everything is just so fucked up, you know?” he concluded and when George merely nodded, Paul let out a rather irritated huff, only to shake his head at himself in disapproval after. “Strange thing is,” he continued, “it doesn’t seem that long ago when we were still children. Remember that, Geo? Just us two, running around together, playing silly games and pretending we were the knights of the round table, saving Liverpool from all kinds of evil. Remember that?”

“Certainly. Neither of us ever wanted to play Arthur. You were always Lancelot, the best and most chivalrous knight who could sweep any young lady of her feet – or _boy_ , I suppose, in your case.” George giggled at his words and Paul too could not help the smile that pulled at his lips at the memory, his heart filling with a warm, fuzzy feeling he had not felt again since those days in Paris with John. Even back then, when he couldn’t have been older than six or seven, he was pretending to be saving handsome men, lords, and princes as young Sir Lancelot with the help of  his trusted friend, companion and mentor.

“And you were always Merlin, giving me all your prophecies, which never turned out to come true-“ he said, chuckling. George joined in soon after.

“More often than not because you’d change the rules every other moment whenever it suited you!”

“As if you were any better, Mr ‘my magic is the most powerful magic there is, so I can do anything and everything I want to, even when that defies all logic and every rule we had established’! At least I bothered to change to the rules, while you just didn’t care for them at all!”

“I cared!” George objected, laughing, despite the fact that both knew that wasn’t true. “Do you remember that time we asked Miss Asher to join us?”

“Oh yes! The damsel in distress who didn’t want to be saved,” Paul mused as images of that day flashed before his eyes, and chuckled as he remembered how Jane had outright refused to come with him and let herself be saved, once he had managed to make his way through the dark, dangerous, magical woods with Merlin’s help. She had gone on alone instead, after which she had put a fake wooden crown on her head and declared herself to be ‘Queen’ Arthur, and thus ruler over the two of them, giving her the ability to boss them around as much as she saw fit. “She always had a passion for acting, drama, and theatre, even back then. Oh, how I miss those days. Everything was still so simple. Every marriage was over as soon as you stopped playing, there were no babies, no obligations, and as many pretty boys to save as your mind could conjure up. Not that… not that I am not happy for you and Pattie, of course, George.”

“No, I understand. I feel the same way now that it is truly happening. If it wasn’t for the fact that Pattie’s belly has grown so much, I wouldn’t have been able to believe it, if I’m honest. It is scary though, having a child on the way; a small living creature that is completely dependent on you, and that _you_ have to keep alive and be responsible for. Pattie’s mother thinks it’s too soon for us, that we’re too young, and although I am happy we’re going to be blessed with a child, especially after the last time when it went wrong, I sometimes cannot help but fear she is right. It’s… it’s a lot, you know?”

“No,” Paul answered after a brief moment of thought. “No, I don’t know.”

They remained silent for a few more moments, before finally Pattie’s voice came rising up from below, calling them down for tea, to which the two boys happily complied. They made their way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Pattie had already taken a seat at the kitchen table and motioned them to sit down as well. Three steaming mugs of tea were placed on the table, along with a small saucer with a couple of biscuits. Martha once again followed her owner inside and laid down at his feet, so Paul could pet here if he so wished, which he did from time to time as he drunk his tea and spoke with George and Pattie about some general things and the baby, until Pattie inquired after Jane Asher and his engagement to her. He could see the worried look on George’s face as his wife brought it up, but he merely smiled and answered her questions, somewhere feeling glad to be able to talk about it with someone who did not find it of the utmost importance that the marriage would succeed.  

The Asher had arrived yesterday morning like his father had told him they would, and he had done his best to look his best and be there on time to welcome them as was desired of him. His father had been most pleased to see him looking presentable as he had come down the stairs at just the right moment, and Paul had not been able to repress the sigh of relief at the look of approval on his father’s face, which the latter luckily had not noticed. His brother, on the other hand, had noticed and had looked somewhat worried still, being well aware of the eldest McCartney’s feelings towards the match, but Paul had behaved his best and once lunch had ended and the Ashers had been escorted upstairs to their rooms, his father had even told him he was proud of him, something that happened only rarely, and Paul would be lying if he said it did not affect him.

Jane had been as dazzling as ever, being polite and sincere to everyone who spoke or even looked at her, and looking absolutely stunning as she had climbed out of the carriage, wearing a deep purple dress with a tight bodice that suited her surprisingly well, and had managed to look both approachable and kind as well as intimidating at the same time, which was one of the qualities Paul liked most about her. He hadn’t spoken to her much, though, having kept his distance from her and her family as well as everyone else, preferring to be left alone with his thoughts. He had been glad when the day had finally ended and he could retire for the evening. Except that evening, as he had laid sleepless in his bed, he had not been able to stop thinking about future, about Jane, about their marriage, about John, whom he still had to tell the “happy” news, something which he wasn’t looking forward to.

He stayed at the Harrison’s for about another hour and a half, discussing various topics and feeling generally happy to be away from his family for a while and not have to think about them, before he decided he’d better leave. It was nearing nine ‘o clock, which meant the rest of the house would awaken soon and go down for breakfast around ten-ish, perhaps a little earlier, where his father would expect him to be present and be just as gentlemanly as the day before. He hadn’t yet had any breakfast himself, either, and his stomach was beginning to protest at the lack of food Paul offered it, the biscuits Pattie had put down for them not being enough. George and Pattie understood though, and George immediately got to his feet to see Paul out.

“Thanks, Geo,” Paul said as the younger man got him his coat and helped him into it, while Pattie rummaged around in the kitchen to find Martha a little snack for the road as she always did when they visited. Once she got her treat, Martha came trotting back out of the kitchen with a piece of old bread in her mouth, her tail wagging in excitement, and began munching eagerly on it as she stood beside Paul, ready to leave whenever he so desired. Paul smiled at the sight of her and ran his fingers through her fur, before turning back around to see Pattie emerge from the kitchen as well, both of her hands holding her back as she rubbed it. George immediately took over as soon as he saw it.

“I er…” Paul started somewhat uncertain, knowing now was the only chance he had to bring up the issue he really needed to talk to them about. “I also spoke to my father yesterday, George. About the raise you asked me about?”

George, immediately interested in what his friend had to say, looked up at him expectantly, his hands halting for a moment. “Yes?”

“Well… I cannot promise anything for certain, but he did say he would be willing to consider it. He wants to speak with you first, before he comes to a final decision, and I am not sure how much he’s willing to consider, but he didn’t refuse!”

“Oh, Paul! That is wonderful! Thank you!” Pattie exclaimed before her husband had any time to say anything, and George could only nod in agreement to his wife’s words.

“Yes! Yes, thank you. I really appreciate you doing this for us, Paul,” he finally managed to say, but Paul shrugged it off, shaking his head.

“It was no problem. I told you I would talk to him. I was only lucky he was in a good mood now the Ashers are here,” he said with a pained smile, but George and Pattie insisted on thanking him nonetheless, both being well aware how difficult James McCartney could be, especially about business issues. Again Paul insisted that the raise wasn’t yet certain – his father had the annoying quality of changing his mind as easily as he did everything else – but both George and Pattie assured him they knew, so Paul left the conversation as it was and bid them both goodbye, before he stepped outside and started making his way back to the manor, Martha following closely behind.

It was a nice day, with only a few puffy white clouds drifting overhead, birds chirping cheerily in the trees, and despite the chill that hung in the air, the lack of wind made it surprisingly comfortable weather to go for a walk. Martha was happily running around, chasing various little bugs and birds that were quick to fly away and escape her big fluffy paws and eager mouth. Paul whistled a tune as he watched her, forcing himself to clear his mind and enjoy the nature around him as they slowly came close and closer to home.

They hadn’t gone far yet, though, or Martha suddenly spurted away with a couple of happy barks, tearing Paul away from his mindless thoughts as he called after her, shouting at her to come back, which she didn’t.

“Martha! Martha, come back here!” Paul shouted again as he sped up his pace, his calm walking pace transitioning into a jog as he went after her, cursing at himself as he wondered what she could possibly have seen that would cause her to run away. She wasn’t usually the kind of dog to do that, and tended to stay in close proximity to him even when they were on a walk like now. His questions were soon answered, though, when Martha came running back to him, her tongue hanging from her mouth and her tail wagging again in enthusiasm, with Jane following closely after her, carrying a large basket in one hand, as she held onto her hat with the other.

“J-Jane…” he muttered, halting in surprise at the sight of her. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, of course! We barely spoke yesterday and well… when one of your servants told me you had gone on an early walk, I thought you might be hungry,” Jane answered with a broad smile as she lifted the basket for emphasis, making her intention more than clear, and beckoned him over. “Come on, let’s find a good spot. Somewhere private would be good. Can’t have anyone interrupting our little picnic now, can we?” she joked with a cheery laugh, and Paul responded in kind as he nodded and hurried over to her. His stomach growled impatiently at the promise of food.

***

The two of them didn’t take long to find a good spot for their picnic. Jane had always loved the lake, which wasn’t too far away, so they folded out their generous-sized blanket along the waterside, allowing Jane to take off her shoes and stockings and dangle her feet in the water like she used to do when she was a child, while Paul laid down on his side beside her with his legs curled up around her as he made them sandwiches, offered her some fresh fruit, buttered the scones she had managed to procure for them, and handed her some orange juice or sparkling wine whenever she asked. It was a peaceful and quiet moment and Paul felt grateful for her idea to do this, being glad to be out of the sight of their ever-watchful families.

They mostly sat in silence, listening to the sounds of nature as they ate, while Jane occupied herself by fingering some wild flowers she had picked from her immediate surroundings, carefully lacing them together to create a long line of them. Paul kept to studying her, taking in every little movement of his fingers, the way the sun made her hair look an almost fiery red, rather than the copper colour he was used to, and the way her lips seemed to move as she hummed a soft tune. Occasionally, he would look across the lake and allow his mind to drift away into an almost dream-like state; thoughtless, calm, serene, and for a moment it seemed like he truly would this time. Before he could drift off completely, however, Jane pulled him back into reality by laying a gentle hand on his arm, catching his attention.

“What is on your mind?” she asked. Paul pretended not to know what she was talking about, and only shrugged as he picked up the last piece of his current sandwich and finished it. “You are preoccupied today,” Jane continued, but Paul again didn’t answer. “You were yesterday as well. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

“It’s not often you hear you are going to get married,” Paul said in reply, but Jane only hummed at his answer, and looked back at her work as she knotted the two ends of the line of flowers together, creating a circle.

“Sit up,” she said as she turned back to her fiance, gently holding the ring of flowers in her hand. Paul did as she said, leaning forward when she told him to, and chuckled as she placed the flowers on his head.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He reached up to feel for himself, but Jane was quick to bat his hands away.

“Don’t touch it! You’ll ruin it. And it’s a flower crown, which - Look up at me, perfect – is going to make you look pretty,” Jane explained, as she adjusted the flower crown on Paul’s head with a gentle hand, afraid to accidentally break the crown.

“I am always pretty, remember?” Paul reminded her with a wink, but Jane gave him a look of disapproval as she shook his head. “But I am!”

“Don’t get cocky.” She gave the flower crown one last gentle tug and ran her fingers through his hair to add a little more volume, making the who look appear more natural, before she sat back and considered him for a moment. Once she was certain everything was perfect and secure, her lips curled up in a wide smile.

“Good?” Paul asked and Jane nodded.

“Perfect. As always.”

“I aim for nothing less, darling,” he said and Jane chuckled in response. After their laughter had died down, though, it remained silent between them for a moment, neither knowing what to do or say. In the end, Paul decided on taking a sip from his sparkling wine, his throat feeling rather dry. It was Jane, however, who ended the silence.

“Paul?” she asked, and paused to study him for a moment, before she continued her question. “What is on your mind?”

“Nothing!”

“You can tell me,” she assured him, but when Paul didn’t answer, she said, “I’ll go first!”

“Go first?” Paul repeated, unsure what she meant, but Jane merely nodded in reply.

“Yes! I’ll admit something first, and then you can tell me what’s been bothering you afterwards. It is only fair, don’t you agree? Okay,” she paused for a moment to adjust the way she was sitting, making herself more comfortable, before she continued, “I acted.”

“Acted? You _acted_?” Paul repeated, and Jane nodded as she smiled proudly.

“I did! Oh Paul, it was wonderful. I went to the theatre with my father – he had to be there for business and brought me along to keep him company – and while I was waiting for him to finish his meeting with the theatre manager, I explored a little and well… one of the male actors noticed me snooping around backstage, spying on the rehearsal that was going on for their new play, and asked if I wanted to try it out myself. Of course I couldn’t refuse such an offer!”

“Who was the actor?” Paul asked with a grin, and Jane hit his arm at his cheekiness.

“It is not what you think. I am not like you,” she said, but Paul only grinned wider, knowing better than to believe such a blatant lie, and so she hit him again. “I hate you.”

“I doubt that. But never mind him, then, if you want to be a tease about it. What did you play?”

“Shakespeare, of course. What else did you think I was going to play?”

“Which play? What role?”

“Hamlet!”

“Don’t tell me you did the whole ‘To be or not to be’ speech?”

“And so what if I did?”

“It is a cliché! Never mind the fact that it’s a man’s role.”

“Might be, but it’s still a dream to play such a role as Hamlet, isn’t it? And well… at first men played women, so now it’s the women’s time to play men, don’t you think? It is only fair,” Jane said and Paul snickered at that, but couldn’t think of any good argument to bring in against that statement, so he agreed with a shrug of his shoulder and picked up his wine glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said, taking a sip, and Jane happily joined him as she took a sip herself as well. “You know,” Paul continued as he put his glass back down on the grass next to him, “I’ve always enjoyed good old Will, and I do love that line from Hamlet that Polonius speaks: ‘to thine own self be true’. It would be good if more people lived like that, don’t you think?” Jane shrugged.

“If only it ever was that easy,” she mused.

“It should be,” Paul said and this time it was Jane’s turn t nod. Sighing, she put her glass of wine back down and leaned forward to run her fingers through the water, thoughtfully playing with it as Paul followed her movements.

“Jane,” he said after another moment of silence, feeling his hands get clammy as she looked up at him, their eyes locking, and he took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, trying his best to ignore the rapid pacing of his heart in his chest. The best, he rationalised, was to just get it out in the open. “I er… I have another lover.”

If Jane was surprised she hid it well. She didn’t say a word and simply stared at him for a while, her body and face unmoving, giving nothing away, before she let out another sigh and nodded. “Who?”

“An artist. Painter to be exact. He’s handsome, young, about two years older than me. He’s sweet, funny, talented,” Paul answered truthfully, and again Jane simply nodded, her face expressionless.

“Do you love him?” she asked and Paul was momentarily startled by the question, making it difficult for him to speak, but once he finally found his voice, he told her he didn’t know, and again Jane nodded.

“Is that strange? Not knowing if you love someone?” he asked, frowning at his own inability to answer a question that was so easily formulated. It wasn’t that he was afraid to tell her, that he was afraid he would hurt her feelings if he said he did. He just truly did not know. Did John love him? Wasn’t it enough prove that he couldn’t say he didn’t love him? When did you know you loved someone anyway?

“No. It’s not strange,” Jane said, interrupting his thoughts and she smiled at him as she reached over to pick up another sandwich. She handed it to him and Paul took it. “It is normal. Now, finish that. We should probably get back before anyone starts to miss us and goes looking for us.”

Paul nodded in agreement and did as she had told him to while Jane put her stockings and shoes back on and started to clear the blanket and put everything back into the basket, while letting Martha finish their left-overs. By the time Paul had finished his sandwich, they were ready to leave, so he got up from the grass, took the basket from her and offered her his arm as they started to make their way back to the manor, Martha once again following closely behind them.

“Jane?” Paul asked as the manor began to come into view. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, frowning as she glanced up at him, her pretty face looking positively puzzled. Paul smiled at the sight.

“For understanding. For not being mad at me,” he said and Jane chuckled at that as she shook her head and called him silly. She paused in her tracks to stand up on her tiptoes and press a sisterly kiss to his scruffy, unshaven cheek.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while, but here is the new chapter! Enjoy! :)

For John it felt strange to be back in Liverpool, to be back to doing his regular job with the same old people, and live in the same old house again. So much had changed during those two weeks of travelling with Paul, none of which he had shared with anyone yet, knowing it would be too dangerous, especially for Paul. And even if it wasn’t, he knew no one would react positively to the news of their newly established relationship. Yet, he fell back into the rhythm of the day with ease, and managed to keep ahead of his work, despite the many times his mind drifted off to more pleasant things, such as the image of a brown-haired young man with pretty doe eyes that were glazed over with lust as he lay under him in his Parisian bed, his head resting on a fluffy white pillow, while his pink lips trembled with need as he whispered his name in a voice that made the hairs on John’s arms stand up, even if he could not actually hear him. Occasionally, he would pause in his work to scold himself, needing to focus on what he was working on, only to take up the fantasy later in the privacy of his own room.

Mr. Edwards had been proud when he had shared the news about Mr. Arpin and his willingness to take him on as an artist and see what he could do for him. He had patted him warmly on the back as he had congratulated him, telling him how he had always known John’s talent would get him somewhere, and how John could always come to him if he needed anything. Stuart had felt happy for him as well, though there had been some tension between them when he had told him so. John could understand why; he knew how much Stuart wanted recognition for his work, and if there was anyone who deserved that, it was him. But being the good friend and kind soul he was, Stuart hadn’t said anything of it and had merely smiled before he had turned around to pour them something to drink in celebration of the good news.

Although everyone around him appeared more than impressed by the news, however, having also received delighted felicitations from other people, such as Cynthia, but also his aunt Mimi, who had barely ever shown any interest in his choice of career, John did not share their enthusiasm. Not that he wasn’t grateful for the opportunity. He was well aware of how lucky he was, and was incredibly happy that his career was developing into the direction he had always hoped it would, but his mind kept drifting to other matters that kept him occupied.

He had not heard from Paul at all since they had arrived in Liverpool and Paul had brought him home. He had helped John carry his luggage out of the coach, and wished him goodnight with one last gentle kiss in the shadow of the carriage, where no one would be able to see them, before he had climbed back inside and had driven off to his own home, leaving John standing on the pavement with a goofy grin on his face that he would not normally admit to if someone were to accuse him of it. They hadn’t spoken since, and neither had Paul shown up to work on his portrait that Wednesday afternoon, which left John disappointed, but mostly worried, wondering what his father could possibly have wanted to discuss with him that would warrant Paul to come home a day early. He could only imagine it had something to do with his future marriage, but Paul had said himself he still had two months to find himself a wife before his father would do it for him – months Paul had intended to spend quite differently from what his father wanted. Apart from that, he had no idea what else it could be, seeing as he barely knew anything about the family that was not already known to the larger public, leaving him with too few and yet too many options at the same time. In truth, all he knew was that it had to have been something serious, as Paul had gone rather pale when he had read the letter, but apart from that, he was clueless.

He had attempted to find out more by asking innocuous-sounding questions to various people, of whom Stuart, Cynthia, Mr. Edwards, Aunt Mimi, the postman, a police officer, and even Dot, were just a few, but that had proven to be a fruitless endeavour. He had asked Richard as well, who, as he had learned from Stuart, had needed to sail out again a lot sooner than anyone had expected, and whom he had sent a long letter explaining what had happened in Paris, while leaving out every little thing that could point to his and Paul’s growing relationship with meticulous precision, before asking if he knew anything that could be the cause of their early departure. Of course, the fact that Richard was at sea made it so his letter would not reach him for a while, but he figured it was worth a try. The man had an ear for gossip, something he had failed to appreciate before.

For now, though, he had come to accept that if he was to learn anything about the McCartneys that he could trust to be more than just highly imaginative hearsay, it had to be through Paul himself, who appeared to be too busy to speak with him. He preferred that explanation to the other possibility that would often plague his mind in the early morning hours when the world was fast asleep and his deepest thoughts and worries would come out, that possibility being that Paul was avoiding him, or maybe didn’t care for him at all.  _“Just sex.”_  The two words would swim through his head as he lay wide awake in his bed, haunting him, making him twist uneasily under the covers in an attempt to block them out and get more comfortable, only to fail.

One evening when he couldn’t sleep and he had spent about an hour and a half worrying about Paul and his failure to show up for their usual appointment, he got up from his bed, pulled on a robe to keep himself warm, and walked over to the small desk at the opposite side of the room, where he searched for the small package of matches and struck one to light a candle, letting the warm glow of the flame light up the desk, before he sat down. Letting out a deep yawn, he pushed some papers away to clear some space, and pulled open one of the drawers to get himself some paper to write on, only to find it full of unfinished drawings of Paul, some good, some bad, most of them beautiful, which John had to admit was not because of his own skill, but the beauty of the man himself. The recent ones he had made in Paris were in there as well. John smirked to himself as his eyes fell on the one drawing he had done of Paul naked, memories flooding back that caused his crotch to give a slight tingle. He ignored it, and pushed the papers aside in search for an empty sheet, which he found somewhere between the countless drawings. He laid it out on the desk, rearranged the drawings into stacks, and closed the drawer, before grabbing himself something to write with. He didn’t think of what he wanted to say or how to say it, and simply started writing, putting the words down as they came to him, not thinking about them, but letting them flow.

_Paul,_

_I hope you are doing alright. I haven’t heard from you in a while, and considering how things were when we last saw each other, I’m worried about you. I hope you’re okay and that the issue with your father, whatever that was, is resolved. I miss seeing you. I wish you were here. Please tell me you are okay. I need you._

_With love,_

_John_

He felt silly for writing it, for putting his feelings down on a page like this, making them appear all the more real, without even knowing whether Paul felt anything similar to the way he felt, never mind the fact that Paul most likely wouldn’t think it was his place to know about the issues between him and his father. And why would it be? Paul had had, for as far as John could tell, numerous affairs in the past, so why would this one be any different? If it truly was, as Paul put it, “ _just sex, no harm done_ ”, he had no reason at all to be sharing personal issues like that with him. Olivier had been one of Paul’s short-lived affairs, and he had said so himself that “ _Paul doesn’t do that sort of thing_ ”,  so why would that change now? He wasn’t anybody special. He wasn’t incredibly handsome, especially in comparison with the types of men Paul usually took to his bed. He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t upper class. He wasn’t intelligent or successful, or anything like that. He was a poor, failing, amateur artist with money problems who worked as an apprentice for a portraitist, and whose master had offered him a room out of pity because he could not afford anything by himself. There was nothing he could offer Paul. Nothing. He would be a fool to believe that he could be anything more to Paul than “ _just_   _sex_ ”. Sending a letter such as this… And besides, he knew couldn’t send it. It’d be dangerous for the both of them if this letter was to be read by anyone else but them.

He considered writing another letter, one less soaked in sappy romance, something more reserved, polite, platonic, but he decided against it. If Paul felt the need to discuss anything with him about what was happening, he would do so on his own accord; writing him a letter to urge him would not help. If anything, it would make him more reluctant to do so. Sighing, he folded up the letter, blew out the candle and stumbled his way back to bed, holding out his hands in front of him to make sure he did not bump into anything on the way, and knelt down to stuff the letter under his mattress, safe and out of sight, before he crawled back under the covers. Needless to say, he did not sleep well that night.

***

“Are you still working on that thing? You’ve never been this slow with any of your other works.” John frowned at his friend’s words and caught sight of him from the corner of his eye. Stuart was standing with his hands behind his back, studying the unfinished canvases that rested against the wall. He appeared to be looking at one canvas in particular, although John couldn’t see which one. Still, he could make an educated guess. For now, though, he ignored him while he finished the careful stroke of yellow paint he had been working on, forming a neat curl of hair that framed the young lady’s face on the unfinished canvas before him. Once finished, he sat back in his chair, nodded at the young lady to tell her she could move again, took the rag that lay draped over his lap and started rubbing the paint off his brush as he glanced up at Stuart to see what he was talking about.

“I mean, I understand you have to work carefully, but you’re nowhere near finishing it and you’ve been working on it for weeks!” Stuart said, gesturing at Paul’s portrait, which John had to admit was taking far longer than it normally would. Still, it was slowly coming along, and even though it wasn’t yet finished, John could see it was going to be one of his best works, the quality of the unfinished portrait being striking in comparison to the canvas he was working on at the moment.

“Well,” he said, laying the rag back down and dipping his brush in the lighter yellow to bring detail in the locks of hair he was working on, mixing it with a hint of light brown to get the exact colour he wanted, “normally I’m not working on a portrait for the McCartneys. They  _are_  quite demanding, in case you had forgotten.”

“Oh, I hadn’t,” Stuart said with a chuckle, “but still, though. You could have finished this one weeks ago and get a similar result, couldn’t you? Or at least up to a point where you would need only a few more brushstrokes?”

“I don’t think Mr. McCartney would appreciate me finishing the portrait weeks before the deadline, Stu. He’ll think I didn’t take it seriously. Besides, I don’t mind taking my time with it. There could have been worse portraits to do than this one.”

“You like working on it, then?” Stuart inquired, suspicion in his voice.

“Of course. It is my job, isn’t it?” John answered, trying to sound as unaffected as usual, but he could see by the look on Stuart’s face that he remained unconvinced. He pretended not to notice, though, and quietly went back to work, smiling politely at the young lady as she resumed her pose. Luckily Stuart didn’t say anything further about it either, and went back to his own easel to continue his own work as well. Still, the silence on the matter of the McCartneys did not last long.

“Do you think he’s coming then?” Stuart asked after a short while. “He’s usually here on Friday afternoons, isn’t he?” John shrugged and continued working on the portrait, not even looking at his friend in the hope he would let the conversation rest. Naturally, he didn’t.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t though, you know. Perhaps he is busy, but even if he’s not… They barely show any regard for others, the McCartneys; either they feel like coming and they do, or they don’t and then they just… don’t.”

“I know, Stu.”

“Especially Paul McCartney. He-“

“I  _know_ , Stu!” John repeated, more harshly than he had intended. At least it got Stuart to remain silent for a while. But still John was certain he could see a tiny little smirk on his lips, careful and barely there, but still obvious enough for him to pick up on from the corner of his eye. He hoped, however, that it had only been his imagination, knowing that if there was anyone apart from Richard who could find out about the nature of his relation to Paul, it would be him. Stuart knew him better than anyone.

He hadn’t even meant to come across as harsh as he had, but in reality he was worried about Paul, and with every day that passed without a word from him, the worse it got. His absence last Wednesday couldn’t be that easily explained by saying that it was due to his family, or even his haughtiness – after all he knew how serious Paul took his appointments, seeing as he hadn’t even been prepared to cancel one for some highly fulfilling morning sex. If there was anything Paul didn’t act on, it were whims. He didn’t think Stuart would understand that, however; most of his opinions on Paul and the McCartney family in general seeming too fixed to be able to change.

The minutes ticked by as John continued working on the portrait in front of him, his mind occasionally wandering off to other places, only to be brought by back by Stuart asking him stuff, or by Mr. Edwards who came in to check on them and see how they were faring, before going back to his office. After a while – he couldn’t be certain how long – he had given up on the hope that Paul would show that afternoon, the doorbell still not having rung, and he couldn’t help but be disappointed.

Not long after, however, the doorbell rang anyway, but John did not react, being too focused on his work to even notice it when Stuart got up to answer the door. Still, his ears pricked up when he heard the sound of mumbling voices coming from the hallway, one of them sounding suspiciously similar to Paul’s voice. He reasoned it was his mind playing tricks on him, but the slight animosity in Stuart’s voice as he spoke to the unknown man made him doubtful. Not long after, he could hear Mr. Edwards descending the stairs to meddle in the conversation and tell Stuart off for his attitude, his loud booming voice being impossible to miss even through the thickness of the walls. Stuart muttered some protests in reply before the conversation finally quieted down to a silence. John looked up in curiosity when the door opened and Stuart and Mr. Edwards came back in, the unknown man following closely behind.

“John, Mr. McCartney is here to see you,” Stuart said, his voice almost a grumble, and John’s body momentarily tensed up in surprise at the name. Sure enough, Paul was standing in the doorway, his hands behind his back, looking as handsome and immaculate as always, with his cheeks and jaw cleanly shaven, hair perfectly combed, and his suit well pressed. His expression was as cold and serious as during their first meeting, and if it hadn’t been for the slight hint of a smile that pulled at his lips when their eyes met, John would have thought all that had happened over the last few weeks had been a dream, there being no hint of recognition at all in Paul’s expression or mannerisms other than that barely noticeable hint of a smile. He quickly rose to his feet when he realised he had been staring.

“Mr. McCartney! I-I didn’t think you were coming this afternoon,” he told him truthfully, and swallowed the lump in his throat as he realised that might have come off as a tad impolite. Judging by Mr. Edwards, who was frowning at him in disapproval, he certainly thought so. Paul, on the other hand, only stared at him, his face expressionless.

“Not that you aren’t welcome here, of course, Mr. McCartney. I am sure Mr. Lennon was just about finished with the young lady, weren’t you, John?” Mr. Edwards said, saving a situation that did not need saving, but Paul thanked him anyway and John was quick to turn to the young lady who was still sitting in her seat, her eyes moving from the one man to the other in curiosity.

“Yes. I erm… we were just done for today, weren’t we, Miss Marsh? Mr. McCartney, please take a seat, I will be right with you. Miss Marsh, if you could go with Mr. Sutcliffe, he will see you out,” he said and both Paul and the young lady did as he had said. Stuart, however, shot a couple more curious looks between him and Paul, before he led the young lady out of the room and closed the door behind him, leaving them.

Mr. Edwards made some polite conversation with Paul as John switched the portrait on the easel with Paul’s and got himself a couple of clean brushes to work with. He then took his seat as well and started to prepare everything. From the corner of his eye, he could catch glimpses of Paul, and he watched him silently as he spoke with Mr. Edwards. Every once in awhile, their eyes would meet and John would smile at him, while Paul pretended not to notice. He remained perfectly calm and serious as he discussed the weather, his trip to Paris, and John’s artistic talent with Mr. Edwards, praising him in a way John hadn’t heard before, and it made him feel strangely proud. Paul seemed to notice, his eyes sparkling kindly whenever their eyes would meet. Thankfully, Mr. Edwards did not appear to take any note of the wordless conversation that was going on between the two young men and continued his own conversation uninterrupted.

“Mr. McCartney? Shall we get started?” John asked once he was ready, and Paul nodded as he turned away from Mr. Edwards and towards him, his legs uncrossing as he moved into the usual position with surprising ease. He didn’t appear to notice the dumbfounded expression on the painter’s face as he came to sit exactly how John wanted him without any assistance as was usually required, and waited patiently for him to begin. Mr. Edwards, realising he wasn’t needed any longer, excused himself from their presence, and vanished through the kitchen door, leaving the two men to themselves at last with the reassurance that if either of them needed anything, they could come to him. Again Paul thanked him and John pushed his momentary surprise away and dipped his brush in the paint to begin.

For a while it remained quiet between the two of them, both men glancing nervously at one another while John worked on the portrait, being careful with his brushstrokes as he began to get a feel for it again, the strokes, angles and curves feeling foreign yet familiar. Every picture felt different and it had been awhile since John had last allowed himself to draw him. Neither of them knew what to say or do, and it wasn’t until John noticed Paul smiling to himself that he found his voice again.

“What?” he asked, subconsciously copying Paul’s smile.

“Just that it’s been awhile since you last called me ‘Mr.McCartney’. It sounded strange coming from you now,” Paul explained, his smile widening. John, though glad to see Paul acting freely towards him again and get some indication that what had happened between them had not been his imagination, rolled his eyes in return.

“You were the one who insisted on me addressing you  _properly_  the first time we met. If you hadn’t, I might not have needed to.”

“I didn’t say I necessarily disliked it,” Paul replied with more cheek than John had expected from him. He stared at him for a moment, before his lips pulled up into a smirk, his hand pausing in its work.

“Maybe I should continue to call you that, then,  _Mr_.  _McCartney_.”

“I still prefer you calling me Paul, though.”

“As you wish,  _Paul_.” Paul chuckled at that and shook his head as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back and out of his face, while at the same time messing it up. Still, it looked as perfect and immaculate as before, but John figured he might be too biased to make any objective observations like that. Not that he thought Paul would mind it if he did, seeing how much he appeared to care about his appearance. John supposed it was a class thing. He cleared his throat before turning back to his work, forcing his eyes away from the gentleman before him in favour of his responsibilities.

“I meant it, you know. I hadn’t expected you to show up today,” he said after a momentary, more comfortable, silence.

“Because I didn’t show up last Wednesday?”

John nodded, but kept his eyes on the canvas. “That, and you’re late.” Paul sighed and for a moment it remained quiet between them to the point where John thought that had been the end of their conversation. But then, Paul suddenly began to speak.

“I should have let you know I was unable to come. I needed some time. For myself. To think.”

“Because of your father?” John inquired, turning his head to Paul, who was staring down at the floor, his fingers knotted together in his lap. He looked deep in thought, but nodded at the question.

“He’s found me a wife.”

“A wife? But I thought you-“

“Change of plans. It happens in my family. I-I needed some time to consider some things. To consider us. Her. Jane – that’s her name – she arrived at the manor last Tuesday morning with her father to arrange everything. The rest of her family is coming later when we’re ready to announce our engagement. I don’t know when they want to do that, but I don’t doubt they’re planning to do it soon. They want us to marry this winter. Early February, I suspect.”

“Early February…”

“Hmm… she- she’s a nice girl, though. Pretty, clever, accomplished – everything you could want in a wife. Her mother’s side of the family even has ties to the royal family.”

“Right…” John mumbled as he paused again in his work and lowered his brush, resting his hands on his thighs as he looked down at himself, trying to control his breathing as he listened to Paul’s words, trying to take it all in, while attempting to figure out what he was feeling.

“She…” Paul started, but he cut himself off before he could continue that sentence.

“She what?” John demanded, glancing up at Paul to lock eyes with him, being shocked to see not a shimmer of emotion of his face. He merely took a deep breath before continuing.

“She doesn’t have any illusions. About me. About  _us_.”

“She knows?!”

Paul nodded.

“Did you tell her?”

Again Paul nodded. “It wouldn’t have been fair towards her if I hadn’t, John. She deserves to know what she is marrying into. And besides… I knew she would understand. I wouldn’t have told her otherwise. But letting her marry me without knowing exactly who she would be marrying and what kind of relationship she could expect… I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t have been fair.”

“But this is,” John snorted, making Paul frown.

“You knew this would happen someday, John. I told you this would happen.”

“That you did.”

“John-” Paul tried, but the other man shook his head, telling him wordlessly to not even bother explaining himself. To his surprise, Paul complied. He nodded and sat back in his seat for a short while, waiting for John to say anything, but when he didn’t, he rose up to his feet and straightened his clothing.

“Maybe,” he said, “maybe it’d be best if I left. My father told me to inform you he wishes the portrait to be finished a couple of weeks sooner. I suspect in time for the engagement. He will be in touch with you soon.”

When John did not respond, neither verbally nor physically, Paul nodded to himself, gathered his belongings and started to head for the door. Before he could lay his hand on the doorknob to turn it, though, John spoke up.

“Is this it, then? Just like that?”

Paul froze at the words, but when John ordered him to turn around and face him, he did as he was told, more out of habit than because he wanted to. John had gotten up as well, and appeared threatening as he stood beside his easel, legs spread, knees slightly bent, shoulders broad and head held high. Yet his eye shimmered sadly back at him, revealing the hurt behind the wall of anger.

“You are just going to leave me like that? As if I were a drunken mistake you shouldn’t have made in the first place, ready to be thrown aside when it becomes inconvenient for you?”

“I don’t want this either, John. I don’t have a choice!“ Paul retorted, trying to keep his voice down to make sure no one heard what they were talking about. John shook his head.

“You always have a choice.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”

“No. You don’t. You’re an artist. You’re working class. You can marry whomever you want, whenever you want. You can do anything, but I…! I  _can’t_. I have obligations, responsibilities, not only to myself, or to Jane, or even to my father, but to the whole family, to Jane’s family, to all those people on our estate, who work for us, who depend on us. They depend on  _me_! I can’t simply refuse for no good reason. If I could, oh believe me, I would, but that isn’t possible. This isn’t a  _good_  reason. I don’t expect you to understand, but you have to accept that.”

Paul had barely noticed it that John had been coming closer to him deliberate step by deliberate step, and only realised how close he was when he was standing right in front of him, locking him in between him and the door. He had been about to open his mouth to add something, but before he could make a sound, John had closed in on him all the way and his lips had sealed onto his own in a piercing kiss that knocked all the air out of his lungs from surprise and made his head spin as he momentarily forgot how to think, the issues they had been discussing vanishing from his mind as swiftly as if a switch had been turned in his mind.

It was their first kiss since their hurried goodbye in the shadows of the carriage that previous Sunday, and Paul had almost forgotten how hot John’s mouth felt against his own, how rough his lips and unshaven jaw were against his skin, and how he could feel his blood pulse through his body as their tongues locked together. His hands came up to wrap themselves around his neck, pulling him closer and refraining him from pulling away, needing every bit of contact as urgently as a dying man needed water. He could feel one of John’s hands on his hips, locking him against the door, while the other vanished into his hair, pulling him closer with a violent tug, being just as starving for contact as Paul was.

“I need you with me, Paul,” he grumbled against his lips, sounding almost angry, and when Paul shook his head, John felt as if someone had ripped out his heart and dropped it in a bucket of ice water, their kiss breaking.

“We can’t, John,” he said, his breathing coming out in short gasps against John’s spit-slick lips. His fingers, meanwhile, tightened their hold on John’s neck, refusing to let go.

“Please, Paulie,” John muttered and kissed him again, and he was certain he could feel Paul’s lips curl up in a smile against his own as their bodies melted together.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Just for now. Just for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse any grammar and spelling mistakes. I tend to look over some of them. Someone also mentioned there were quite a few in the last chapter, so I'm doing another spelling/grammar check on that one today as well :) Just thought I'd let you know. 
> 
> I've also been working on Poetry Nights again, as well as a little one-shot, so hopefully I'll be getting those out soon. 
> 
> New chapter should be coming sooner. I had to rethink a lot of where I wanted to go with this fic, which is why it took so long. I noticed there were a few things I tried to do that just wasn't working for various reasons, but things should be better now :) Let's hope for the best. 
> 
> I love you all and thanks for all the support! Without it I wouldn't still be doing this. You're all great :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've finally got the next chapter! I hope you enjoy it :) I am trying to post weekly again, but it's not going that great. I'll get back on schedule eventually. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

If John had had to imagine three months prior what he would be doing around this time, lying in bed with a fully-naked Paul McCartney in his arms would not have come to him. And yet, he was certain it was Paul’s hair tickling him under his nose, Paul’s arms that were wrapped firmly around his waist, Paul’s breath that ghosted over his sweat-slick skin, Paul’s legs that lay entwined with his own, and that if he would open his eyes for a second, he’d be looking down into Paul’s hazel puppy eyes. He didn’t dare to, though, fearing it was only his imagination and he wasn’t truly there, just a faint memory from their days spent in Paris – if he hadn’t imagined that as well. Besides, he didn’t want to ruin the moment. It was peaceful, quiet, intimate, everything John had thought they could never have. He was lying in bed, spend and out-of-breath, listening to the faint mutterings escaping Paul’s lips as he too returned from his high, while drawing circles on the sweaty skin of his lower back, linking birthmarks together with invisible ink to create various patterns, each one more intricate than the last.

A week had passed since John had practically begged Paul to stay with him despite his engagement to Miss Asher, and neither of them had brought it up since. John had been worried future meetings would be awkward, but surprisingly, they had been able to pick up where they had left off with ease. Paul had shown up the following Wednesday on time, and like before he had waited for John to guide his body into the proper position, something both now knew wasn’t needed. Still, John would gladly take any opportunity to be close to the other man and touch him, so he had complied without another word and had knelt down at his feet. At first both had been unsure and John’s touches had been light, an obvious tremor in his hands. But once John had laid his hand high on Paul’s thigh to keep his balance as he traced his jawline with his fingertips to angle his head just right – something he wouldn’t have dared to do before Paris – the initial nerves had been pushed aside and Paul had grabbed his waistcoat with eager hands to pull him into his lap for a determined kiss. John had relished the force with which Paul had kissed him, held him and devoured him, and had easily surrendered to his urgent touches that bordered on the edge of painful. It had been all they had needed to find that old informality again.

Neither had said a lot about Paul’s future marriage or his relationship with Miss Asher, either. Paul only mentioned her on to keep John informed about the development concerning their engagement, to which John would reply with a cold nod or nothing at all, and Paul accepted that. It hurt him to think of Paul with anyone but him, and although he had assured him he didn’t feel anything for her that wasn’t brotherly and platonic, John could not put the possibility from his mind. In the end, he knew he would choose her, marry her, take her to his bed, and produce an heir that was half him, half her, and it didn’t matter what Paul’s feelings were towards him or her. Having been born a woman, she had already won.

Paradoxically, John preferred Paul telling him about her, about her clear affection towards him, about what she was like, her beauty, their past friendship, and how she felt about the wedding, than to have Paul keep her a secret. From what he had heard, she was a good match for Paul too, someone who cared for him and would look after him, someone whom Paul loved as well. He was relieved Paul would marry someone who would be good for him, even if he hated her for it at the same time. Thankfully, she wasn’t the topic of conversation often, and John would never have to meet her.

“That was nice… Hmm, such beautiful hands… skilled, beautiful hands,” Paul mumbled softly as he rubbed his head into John’s chest, bringing him back. One of his hands trailed down over John’s arms to caress the skilled, beautiful hands in question, although John doubted he was aware of what was coming out of his mouth. It was cute, though, and he leaned down to place a kiss on the top of his head. Sometimes it was strange to believe this mess of a man was the same as the determined, overbearing and confident man he saw during sex as well as outside of it.

The bed they were in was too small for the both of them, being only a single, but they made do by lying fully wrapped up in each other, with Paul sprawled on top of John, and John holding him close so he would not lose his balance and fall. Both men relished the closeness, and John smiled as Paul began to play with his fingers, caressing them and twisting them around, while paying special attention to his rough, calloused fingertips and palm, which were so different from his own soft and delicate hands - the hands of a true aristocrat. In the end, Paul took his hand into his own and brought it up to his lips to kiss. Smiling, John opened his eyes, reassured he wasn’t dreaming as feared, but frowned when he caught sight of Paul’s bare wrist.

“You’re not wearing the bracelet I gave you.”

Paul frowned as he raised his head to look at him, looking adorably bemused as he struggled to process what John was saying. Clearly, he was not as clear-headed as his partner. John, however, found it hard to mind when he was greeted with such a pretty sight. His ruffled hair looked as unkempt as he had only seen it once before in Paris, providing crude evidence of the numerous times John had raked his fingers through it, and tugged and pulled. His lips were red and bruised from kissing, and his arousal-flushed cheeks offered a strong indicator of his recent orgasm. His eyes were still hazy, and it took a while before they had fully focused on him.

“People might start asking questions, John. It’s worse enough you stole it. I don’t wish to have to lie about it too.”

“You could say you bought it. The cost probably would have been like pocket change to you.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

“Paul, darling, you’ve been sleeping around with I don’t know how many men for half your life. Obviously you’re not _that_ pious. Why draw the line at something as silly as a little white lie?”

“Well, it would be nice not to have to hide something for once,” Paul said, somewhat taken aback by John’s remark. He didn’t consider the two mutually exclusive himself, but he didn’t comment on it, knowing he didn’t mean it badly. John, unaware of the effect his words had had, smirked at his answer.

“Which you do by hiding the exact thing you do not want to hide?” he asked, cleverly. Paul thought about that for a while, searching his mind for the logic that he was certain had been there when he had made the decision to hide the bracelet. Thinking, though, proved difficult when you had just had the best sex of your life and your lover was still rubbing affectionate circles on your lower back with his fingertips. He frowned at himself, but remained at a loss. In the end, John rolled his eyes at him, called him a rude but affectionate name, and pulled him down for a kiss.  

“Thank you for hiding the evidence of my heinous crime, though, Paul. I like not spending time in prison,” he said against his lips. Paul chuckled as he pulled away.

“Really? I thought you’d feel quite at home there.”

“Is that how you see me, McCartney? A low-life, good-for-nothing criminal?”

“Don’t worry, dear. I can think of a couple things you’re good for.” To illustrate he cocked his head and let one of his fingers trail down seductively from John’s jaw, over his neck and down his chest, making sure to let his nail graze his right nipple, a particularly sensitive spot, and even further down towards his private zone. John chuckled at his advances, but pushed his hand away.

“Sorry, darling. I’m an old man. I need at least five more minutes before I’m ready to go again,” he said and Paul sighed dramatically.

“You’re lucky, you’re worth the wait.”

“Or else you would have left me after the first time? You _are_ using me!” John accused in mock offence. Paul grinned at him in return.

“I’ll have you know, you’re one of the few people I haven’t done that with,” he said. John tried to think of something clever to say in response, but decided against it as he caught the slight flush of pink on the younger man’s cheeks, figuring silence would suffice for what he truly intended to communicate.

They remained curled up together like that for another minute or so, playfully bickering back-and-forth, before Paul started to get up. He pulled away from the warm body under his, and sat down on the side of the bed with his legs thrown over the edge. Reaching for his clothes, he began to get dressed, pulling various pieces of clothing on over his head, the movements of which stretched his body taut. John folded his hands behind his head as he laid back to watch, allowing thoughts to come and go as they pleased, and licked his lip as he noticed a slight bruise just above the curve of Paul’s bum – his bruise, left there by his gripping fingers earlier that afternoon when he had needed to hold on tight as Paul had ridden him, his movements fast, urgent and demanding, but also skilled and deliberate, each bounce reaching ever closer to utter perfection.

“Enjoying the sight, are you?” Paul asked as he caught him staring at him. John, however, didn’t answer and simply watched on as Paul stood up to pull on his underwear and trousers, hiding said bruise from view.

“However much I hate to say it,” he continued as he grabbed John’s comb from his desk to brush his hair, “you should make haste and get dressed before your master or colleague returns. We’ve been pushing our luck as it is.”

“I wish we didn’t have to.”

“Wishing is useless. You do and if you can’t, then you don’t. Come on. I’m not going to help you get dressed. You’re a big boy. You can do that yourself,” Paul said, turning to the mirror above the fireplace to fix his hair and clothes, making himself look presentable with impressive ease. Finally, despite his efforts to come up with a credible excuse to stay in bed a little longer, John got up to get dressed as well.

“Oh! And I’ve got a letter from Mr Arpin for you,” Paul said, running his fingers through his hair to push every lock into its proper place. He caught John’s eye through the mirror’s reflection. “It’s in my coat, so remind me to hand it to you before I leave. I haven’t looked at it yet myself, but I assume it’s important.”

“He must have changed his mind about me. I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Don’t say that. You’re a much better artist than you give yourself credit for,” Paul said matter-of-factly, fixing his neckerchief. Being unsure how to respond, John didn’t say anything, and finished dressing, after which he led Paul downstairs. He paused atop of the stairs to listen if there was anyone below. The sound of footsteps in the hallway was clearly audible, after which he could hear a door opening and closing, signalling that either Stuart, Cynthia or Mr Edwards had come back. He glanced back at Paul and motioned him to be silent as he waited another couple of seconds to make sure the person wouldn’t come back into the hallway, before he deemed it safe to descend the stairs and beckoned Paul to follow him.

“Sneaking around like this is rather exciting, isn’t it?” Paul said with a childish giggle once they were downstairs. He got his coat, hat and umbrella from the coat rack and began putting it on as John kept a close eye on the door to make sure they weren’t interrupted.

“Remind me again, how old are you exactly?” the latter asked, smirking, as he caught sight of his twinkling eye.

“Don’t pretend you’re any better, Mr Lennon. I know you secretly enjoy it. Oh! And here’s your letter.” He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a small, but relatively thick envelop with his name on it, beneath which Paul’s address was written in a neat, looping handwriting. John eyed the envelop with distrust before he took it and tore it open. He smirked uncomfortably when he folded the letter open.

“It’s in French,” he said. Paul looked at him with a blank expression, not understanding what the issues was, so John reminded him he didn’t know any French.

“Oh, my apologies. I er… I forgot. I’ll read it for you,” he said and took the letter back from him to read it. John watched him anxiously, fighting back the urge to bite his nails – a bad habit he used to have as a child, but had learned to overcome in recent years – and preparing himself for the unhappy news he knew would come. When a smile appeared on his lover’s face, however, he frowned. Surely it couldn’t be…

“Mr Arpin writes he has shown your work to a number of other collectors and has received some promising feedback in return. He urges you to paint more and send him more recent works as soon as possible. The more experimental ones in particular seem to have awakened people’s interest, so he’d like you to focus on that if you would be willing to do so. See? I told you there was no need to worry.”

“They like it?” John asked in disbelief, snatching the letter back to look at it himself, even if it all appeared like gibberish to him. Paul smiled and leaned in to press a spontaneous kiss to his cheek, taking not only John but also himself by surprise. Blushing, he took a step back as he realised what he had done.

“If you’d like,” he continued, pretending nothing had happened, “I could teach you some French. If your works continue to be well received, it may be helpful for you to at least be able to make some decent conversation in proper French. People will be most impressed.”

“You’d be willing to do that? I’m not the most hardworking or patient student, in case you weren’t aware. Even when the subjects interest me.”

“I think I can handle you. It’s all about finding the right motivation and I believe I know you well enough to figure that out. We can have our lessons during our weekly meetings and I can bring my old French books from the library. No one will miss them. We should have enough time to make some good process, especially if you could manage to find some time to work on the portrait during the week?”

“I… Yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you,” John said truthfully. He smiled at Paul as their eyes remained locked onto one another. A whole minute passed before Paul managed to tear his eyes away and turned around to the front door as he buttoned up his coat, getting ready to leave.

“I’ll bring some books we can use with me next time. We can see what level you’re on and what we need to focus on then,” he said and had been about to open the door to leave when John stopped him.

“Paul,” he said, catching his attention and making him turn his head to look at him, “I er… just to be clear, I don’t mind you not wearing the bracelet I gave you, but… I do like seeing you wear it. From time to time.” 

“I’ll remember that,” he said and offered John one last smile before he turned and went out, closing the door behind him.

John let out a deep sigh and remained standing by the door for a few seconds longer, the letter still held firmly into his fist. He could hardly belief people liked his work, people who actually knew what they were talking about. And Paul was going to give him French lessons. The thought made him smile as he stared at the letter in his hand. He barely heard the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing.

“You feel strongly about him, don’t you?” the person said. John froze and held his breath as he thought of what to do. He could hear soft footsteps approach behind him. “You don’t have to lie to me, John. But I had thought you were smarter than to get involved with someone like him,” Stuart continued.

“He is not half as bad as you think he is. I know you think he is arrogant, selfish and manipulative, but he isn’t. That’s not all he is.”

“John, he doesn’t care about you. He’ll only hurt you. You’re nothing but a distraction to him. You may not want to hear it, but it’s the truth. I’m only looking out for you. I know what I am talking about,” Stuart said, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, which John shrugged off immediately.

“How can you, Stu? You don’t know him like I do,” he said with anger in his voice. For a moment Stuart remained quiet and John thought he had actually won this round, but then Stuart said something that caused shivers to run down his spine.

“He hasn’t told you, has he? About me and him?” Puzzled, John turned around and stared at his friend with a dumbfounded expression as he searched for his voice.

“That your family used to live on his father’s land, you mean?”

“No, not quite. It was more than that.”

“More than that? Wh-what are you talking about?”

“If he hasn’t told you yet, which I sadly don’t find surprising, I think you should ask him about it first,” Stuart said, and when John pressed on, he merely shook his head, repeated his answer a second and third time, and turned around to walk back into the kitchen again. John had been about to follow him, when Mr Edwards came in through the front door and called him back.

“John, you’re here! Wonderful. I need to speak with you for a moment. If you’d come up to my office with me.”

Knowing it was useless to refuse, John reluctantly did as told. He glanced back at the door through which Stuart had gone and nervously nibbled at his bottom lip as he waited for Mr Edwards to finish taking off his coat, hat, and shoes, and worried endlessly about Stuart’s last words. What did he mean?

*** 

He did not get another chance to ask Stuart about what he had meant when he had hinted at a history between him and Paul McCartney so different from the one John had been made aware of. Although Stuart had had no qualms to bring it up, John thought it strange he did go through painstaking trouble to avoid telling him any more about it, no matter how often John would try questioning him. Often he would walk away without speaking a word or he would tell him to ask Paul about it first, considering the intimate nature of their relationship, and tag a small disparaging remark on after it. Still, Stuart was one of his closest friends and John regarded his friendship highly, so he refrained from commenting on it or pushing him on the subject as not to create a rift between them. That didn’t mean, however, John wasn’t annoyed by his attitude towards his and Paul’s relationship. But Stuart meant too much to him to deliberately damage that friendship.

But this did mean questions regarding the unknown history between Stuart and Paul remained unanswered for almost a week as John waited for Wednesday to come. They plagued his mind until the early hours and would pass by during brief moments of silence during the day, making it hard for him to push those thoughts away. By the time Wednesday had finally arrived, John had made up his mind and decided to ask Paul about it first like Stuart had said, despite his earlier reservations. Although he feared what the answer might be, he needed to know.

His hands shook as he welcomed Paul inside and kissed his cheek, not daring to do anything more passionate in fear of being caught. It was then unsurprising when Mr Edwards came downstairs not long after to welcome Paul in person as well, and offered him a friendly hand to shake, which Paul took graciously without a moment’s thought. It seemed like second nature, which John supposed it most likely was. 

As promised, Paul had brought a couple – five to be precise – of his old French books with him to start off their lessons, the sight of which filled John with dread as memories of his school days came flashing back. Those dark anger-filled eyes of his teacher which had first been so amusing to him, now haunted him and would never be forgotten. John pushed those thoughts aside.

Like always, Mr Edwards respected Paul’s insistence on privacy without question and made sure they wouldn’t be interrupted as they made themselves comfortable on the two sofas in the atelier, while he remained upstairs in his office, working on some paperwork and correspondence with important clients, of whom Mr McCartney Senior was one. Mr Edwards had told John during their conversation last week that he intended to make an appointment to discuss the progress on his son’s portrait, though a time and date had not yet been settled on. Pepper, John’s white feline who had taken a strong liking to the young aristocrat who had captured her human’s eye, had managed to sneak into the atelier with John and Paul, and had made herself comfortable in said aristocrat’s lap. Despite John’s futile attempts to chase her off, she remained where she was, perfectly content, which amused Paul greatly. He laughed and told John it was better to give up, to which John eventually listened. He could always clear away the few strands of hair she’d leave behind later.

The portrait was placed on the easel, ready to be worked on if necessary, as were John’s brushes, scrapers, pellet knifes, rags and other utensils, though neither John nor Paul had any expectations they were going to be used in the coming two hours. Paul sat leaned back in his seat with one of his books open in his hand and used the other to pet Pepper behind her ear, keeping her satisfied while he quizzed John on some basic French words and phrases. Although it was only beginner’s material, it surprised John how much he remembered from his French lessons in school. Yet Paul deemed his grasp of the French language as “virtually non-existent” anyway and decided they needed to start from the beginning, which John had to admit was fairly disappointing. 

Despite this, the first half of their first lessons went by without any issues. They focused on relatively simple but necessary words and phrases that would prove helpful early on so John would have the idea he was making good progress and was learning something that would actually be useful, such as how to introduce oneself, say goodbye and ask some easy but crucial questions, such as how the other person is doing, what the weather is like, what time it is, and where they nearest bathroom is situated, before they moved on to some counting and naming of colours, after which John insisted they needed a tea break. It proved a lot to digest in a short amount of time, but the fast pace at which they went through it managed to keep John interested throughout. It was only after they’d finished their tea, when, after they had swiftly gone over the words and phrases from before, Paul decided they could look at verb conjugation that John began to lose interest. Irregular verbs had never struck John as anything but highly annoying. The fact that he knew how to do them in English without so much as a thought didn’t matter to him either.

“They don’t make sense! Why are they all different? All the other verbs have the same endings! It’s stupid.”

“I know, John, but you know how to do this. You did them perfectly the first time I asked. You can do them again. First list all the personal pronouns for me again,” Paul answered with an exasperated sigh, but managed to keep his calm as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. John grumbled something inaudible to himself, but did as told.

“Je, tu, il, elle, on, nous, vous, ils, elles. I know those, Paul.”

“Good. Now, conjugate the verb ‘to be’.”

“’To be’ is ‘etre’, so… je suis, tu es, il est, nous… nous…”

“Sommes.”

“Nous sommes. I knew that. Vous êtes and ils… som?”

“Ils sont. Almost there, John. Once more.”

“Can’t we stop here for today. I cannot remember all of this at once. I am not that smart.”

“Yes, you are. Now, je…?” John grumbled more inaudible nonsense to himself and shot Paul a glare, but did as he had said, though he wasn’t sure why. If anyone else had been sitting before him, such as his old teacher or his aunt, he wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving or throwing a tantrum like the well-mannered adult he was.

“Je suis,” he answered reluctantly.

“Good. Tu…?”

“Tu es, il est, nous… sommes?” Paul nodded to let him know he was correct. “Vous êtes and ils sont.”

“I told you, you could do it.”

“Have we finished now?”

“Well, actually I thought we could do the verb ‘to have’ one last time to finish it off for today.”

“Oh please, no. My apologies, but not only is my brain in high need of some rest, I already get to see so little of you throughout the week, I’m going to start associating our meeting with the pure pain of studying French. Which isn’t a good thing, even if you’re very handsome when you play the teacher. Can’t we have some time to ourselves?”

“John, however flattering that remark is…”

“I don’t want to waste the little time we have solely on work.” Paul regarded his lover for a moment, but gave in with a sigh.

“I may have a tempting proposition as a compromise,” he said, smiling as John sat up in his seat and leaned forwards to listen more closely. “If you can manage to get the conjugation for ‘to have’ correct in two tries, we will stop for the day and, as a reward, I will allow you to kiss me.” He paused for dramatic effect and noticed John licking his lips at the prospect. “But if you get it wrong, we will continue for another fifteen minutes and you will get no kiss. Know, though, that I wouldn’t propose this if I didn’t think you couldn’t do it.”

John thought for a moment, but agreed, thinking he could still remember the conjugation for the most part. Besides, how could he ever refuse kissing Paul? He decided to give it his best effort.

“Fine. J’ai, tu ais, il ait, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont.”

“Not quite. Second and third person singular were incorrect. One more try.”

“What did I say?”

“Tu ais and Il ait, which is actually the conjugation for the imperfect tense.  You were close, though. Think carefully. I know you know it. J’ai…”

“Tu…” John thought closely, not wanting to be wrong again and have to do this for another fifteen minutes. Strangely, he had thought he had mastered the singular forms fairly well, and had been more worried about the third person plural. He thought about it for a while, thinking hard, but couldn’t think what else it could be. He had been about to give up when he suddenly realised.

“Tu as, il a, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont. ”

The sound of a book slamming shut had never pleased John more than in that moment. Before he knew it, Paul was on him, pressing him back into the couch, and sitting himself down beside him, his body pressed up firmly against his.

“I told you, it is all about finding the right motivation,” he said, his lips only inches away from his, and instead of saying anything back, John cupped his cheek in his hand and leaned in to capture said lips with his own and claim his reward. The sound of the giggles Paul let out in response made his heart and fingers ache for more, and god… he wanted to. But they were not alone: Mr Edwards was right upstairs and Dot, although having been told to stay away from the atelier while Mr McCartney was there unless told otherwise, was here as well, doing her job. So, John refrained and simply let himself enjoy the kiss they shared.

They didn’t move after the kiss ended, both being far too comfortable to. Paul let his head rest on John’s shoulder, while they let their fingers dance together, lightly pulling and coaxing and playing, enjoying the other’s touch as they sat in silence. A few minutes passed until the original question came back to John. He had to ask. He had to do it now.

“Paul?” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He cleared his throat before he continued. “Now we’ve put away those horrid books, can I… can I ask you something?” Paul blinked up at him, his eyebrows knitting together cutely in confusement at John’s serious tone-of-voice.

“Yes, of course,” he said, his fingers briefly pausing their movements. John, on the other hand, continued his as he took a deep breath.

“I wanted to ask you, what is your history with Stuart Sutcliffe?”

“Your friend?” John nodded in response. Paul let his hand drop in John’s lap as he pulled away slightly to look him better in the eye. His brows were still knitted together, though now more in serious thought than confusement.

“Why do you ask? I’ve told you his family used to live on my father’s land.”

“Well yes, only Stuart doesn’t like you very much and I was wondering why that was. Stuart preferred not to talk about it, though he told me I could ask you.” The words didn’t appear to reassure Paul.

“Well, people have a tendency not to like me,” he said, “I cannot act the way I act around you with other people. So generally I’m not a likeable person. Truth be told, I’m not surprised your friend doesn’t like me either. He has no reason to think otherwise, has he?”

“Any particular reason why he has no reason to think otherwise?” John pressed on. Paul shrugged, but continued.

“I was only eleven at the time, so apologies if I don’t recall correctly or in great detail, but as I remember it, my father forced his family leave our estate. Their work was unsatisfactory in his eye and they couldn’t pay him what they owed him so he had to tell them to move away. He didn’t have another choice, but I think that’s a pretty good reason to dislike anyone, even if the reason is not unreasonable.” He did not seem ingenuine, but John sensed he wasn’t telling him everything. He considered leaving it, but his curiosity got the better of him, so he pressed him about it further, to which Paul half-heartedly obliged.

“My father didn’t make life any easier for them. He didn’t help when they needed it. Of course, I am not my father, but with issues like this, it’s easy to confuse the part with the whole. My mother objected to his decision. According to her, they deserved more time, another chance. But my father had his mind made up. I was too young to have a say in the matter, and even now, my voice barely carries any weight. My father doesn’t trust me very much, which I think is understandable, considering my behaviour.”

“Why? Because of your affairs?”

“Partly. But also because as the eldest, it seems everything I do isn’t enough in my father’s eyes. He expects a lot from me, more than I am able to do.”

“That’s… hard,” John said, but Paul merely shrugged and smiled.

“I’m used to it. But like I said, I’m not surprised your friend doesn’t like me. Neither do I resent him for it. Because… he isn’t wrong not to like me.”

*** 

The following day, John waited patiently for Stuart to come in for work. His conversation with Paul was still running through his mind, and although he knew he had no reason to distrust what Paul had told him, there was something that didn’t sit right with him, something that he felt was missing, though he couldn’t put his finger on what that might be. He hoped he was wrong and that what Paul had told him was all the reason Stuart had needed to despise Paul so fervently, though he doubted that was the case. Stuart’s anger and hatred seemed more personal than that, if he could read his friend well, which he thought he could. That is, he had though he could. Until now. But why would Paul lie to him?

What had struck him the most, however, was what Paul had said regarding his relationship with his father. He had said it with such nonchalance, but John couldn’t imagine the mental and physical stress trying to fulfil your father’s unreasonable expectations may cause. Especially since he was already a failure to his father for one thing, something John knew very well wasn’t Paul’s fault – it wasn’t his choice to fall in love with the wrong sex. John had barely known his father, seeing as Mr Lennon Senior had taken off with a ship when he had been six, never to return, leaving his mother heartbroken and unstable, and him alone and abandoned. He had been with the navy, so John had already seen so little of him before that, but that abandonment had been different somehow. But even though if he had never known – if only a little – what it was to have a father apart from his early memories as a child, he knew what it felt like to be a failure, and let the family down. He knew all too well, and the nonchalance in Paul’s voice when he had told him about it hurt, because he knew it wasn’t real.

Still, he worked diligently on Paul’s portrait while he waited, humming a soft tune to himself to drown out the silence surrounding him to stop himself from overthinking, as had become a tendency of his since he had met the young McCartney heir. Stuart came in about fifteen minutes later than usually. He looked grim, with dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks white from lack of sleep. When he caught John’s eye he nodded at him and vanished into the kitchen to come out again five minutes later with a cup of tea in his hand, looking more refreshed.

“Parents?” John asked. Stuart nodded. He put down his tea on the coffee table and laid down on the couch, his head resting on the armrest as he looked up at the ceiling and massaged his forehead.

“Pauline got into an argument with my mother about money, after which my father drunkenly decided he needed to join in as well. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Is your sister alright?”

“She’s sleeping over at my place for a while. She is fine. And a good girl. She meant well, if only my parents would see that.”

“She is lucky to have a brother like you,” John said, smiling, but Stuart scoffed in return and rolled over to look at him. For a moment it was silent between them as Stuart studied him, and when John looked away, he sighed.

“You asked him about it, haven’t you?” Stuart asked. John nodded. “And you doubt his answer.”

“His family forced your family to leave the estate because the quality of work faltered and they couldn’t pay what they owed. That’s how the money problems started, isn’t it?” John paused for his friend to answer, but he didn’t speak, so he continued. “That is why you dislike him. He ruined your lives.” Stuart, to John’s surprise, shook his head.

“We had money problems before that. Although it certainly didn’t help that we had to leave, it would be foolish to blame them completely.”

“Then what is it?”

Stuart remained silent for a while longer, as if unsure whether or not he ought to continue. The wait got onto John’s nerves, so he urged him to speak.

“Tell me, Stu. I… I need to know,” he said. Stuart regarded him for a short while longer before he sat up and took a deep breath.

“I had hoped he would be honest with you, but clearly I had hoped in vain. John, my family wasn’t forced to leave only because of money problems. You see… It was Paul who caused us to leave. He… I was his first kiss, and he betrayed me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I'll be writing the next chapter of Poetry Night next, so look out for that one. After that, I'll be doing chapter 22.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter 22 is finally here. Thanks for being patient. And a special thanks to ChutJeDors for helping me find good ways for Julia to die and reading through this chapter for me, and generally for just being a great person :) I hope you guys enjoy the chapter <3
> 
> Also, there's some Paul/Stuart in this chapter, so fans of that particular ship, enjoy ;)

**** Rainwater splashed up around them as the carriage rolled over the rain-covered cobblestones at a quick pace, making John, sitting inside on the wooden bench, rock left and right as they passed through the narrow passageways towards the main street that led up to the McCartney mansion. He had to hold onto the sides of it to remain seated as they went around a corner, and John wondered how fast they were going, but didn’t complain, trusting the driver’s expertise. 

A few days had passed since he had spoken to Stuart about his history with Paul McCartney, and truth be told, John wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think about what he had learnt. Stuart’s story had remained drifting in the back of his mind over the last few days, nagging at him, making him doubt everything he thought was true about both Stuart and Paul. It wasn’t that Stuart’s story was improbable or hard to believe, but that was the problem. 

They had been friends before, or more so even, if one could apply such terms with what were essentially still children. Stuart certainly seemed to think so and still appeared heartbroken by Paul’s alleged actions, most of which John refused to believe were true. After his initial confession about their history, they had moved their conversation into John’s bedroom, where Stuart had produced a chair from another room to sit on while John had taken the bed, thus providing them with a comfortable distance as Stuart began to speak. His voice had been quiet and reserved, as if afraid, and John had wondered if he had ever told this story to anyone before. In hindsight, he could say with confidence he hadn’t. 

They had met when Stuart had been thirteen, making Paul eleven years of age. He had been living on the McCartney estate with his parents and sister for a few years by then and things had been good: they had had enough money and food to get by, his parents had still seemed happy, and the days had been enjoyable. In the mornings he went to school and in the afternoon he would either help his mother and sister at home or he would be dragged off to work with his father, so he could see what he would have to do on the land when he was old enough to work, which at that point wouldn’t have been much longer. The work had been boring and uninteresting, but Stuart had done it without complaint. 

On the rare occasion, he had had the afternoon to himself and would often spend those days sketching, be that with a stick in the dirt or with a pencil on some paper he had nicked from school. It was the former he had intended on doing one afternoon after school when his mother had kicked him out of the house, leaving him with nothing else to do but to walk and draw interesting patterns and figures in the dirt with sticks of varying sizes until his father returned from work. 

He had walked for a while, softly whistling to himself as he looked around, taking in the different colours of the flowers and trees, while paying special attention to the cheerful chirping of the birds. He tried mimicking them, hoping to find a way to communicate with them, but the birds remained unresponsive to his calls. 

As he had ventured further, into what he had known to be the McCartney’s private estate, where simple workers were not allowed, he came by a lake and saw a boy, a little younger than himself by a few years, lying on his back in the grass, his bare feet dipped in the cool, refreshing water, a thick book on British birds opened up beside him. He had a notebook in his hands and a pencil clutched between the middle and pointer finger of his left hand, which he used to take notes with on the birds he spotted, specifying meticulously, as Stuart had later learnt, their type, colour, build, health, speed, and direction of movement, as well as the time and place he had spotted them. 

Intrigued, Stuart had approached him, and although the boy, who had introduced himself as none other than Paul McCartney, had been shy at first, they had hit it off through their mutual love for art, and a bond had formed between them, first platonic and friendly, later… something else. Something neither of them had known what to do with. 

John had felt strange listening to his friend talk about Paul in that way, a way that was familiar and deeply personal. Although it hadn’t necessarily been jealousy, he hadn’t liked it. He knew it hadn’t been  _ his _ Paul Stuart had spoken off with such fondness, but regardless he found himself wishing there was no one else who knew Paul like he did, like they knew each other. He hadn’t said anything, however, but the marks of his nails digging into the palm of his hand could be felt even now. 

Stuart’s relationship with Paul had ended suddenly and with more shock and consequence than what would have been appropriate for a boy his age. According to Stuart, they had fallen in love, although neither of them had known exactly what those three words meant at the time. It had begun with holding hands, and the holding hands had gradually evolved into cuddling, and the cuddling into shy kisses on the other’s cheek or nose, until finally, Stuart had gathered enough courage and asked him if he could kiss him, like they had seen their parents do when they thought they weren’t around. They had been sitting by the same lake again, together this time, their legs touching as their feet twirled around in the chilly water, the sunlight glistening on the surface. Paul had smiled at him and nodded, and they had kissed. 

That evening, as Stuart had laid in bed late at night, unable to sleep, he had known for the first time what it meant to be in love. 

Sadly, though, the feeling had not been meant to last for long. A few days after, Stuart’s father had come home unexpectedly, grumbling and upset, with flushed cheeks and a deep frown on his forehead. He had shoved a letter into his wife’s hands and told her to get the children, that they had to leave. When his wife had asked for an explanation, he had gestured at the letter and had left the room without another word to find his children and tell them the same. 

His father had yelled at him - not for the first time, but according to Stuart it had never been this bad before that - blaming him and his friendship with “that McCartney boy” as the cause of their new-found misery. His mother had tried to step up for him, saying they were only children, but his father hadn’t wanted to hear a thing about it. “He- he  _ touched _ him, Millie. We are lucky he isn’t being locked up! He is disgusting. And unless he is changing his ways he is not. my. son.” 

For weeks his father wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t do anything but whisper about him to his mother behind his back, and as they had left the estate, Stuart had seen Paul standing atop a small hill, looking down at them as they gathered their things and left, his fingers entwined with those of a red-haired girl of about eight years old, without a twinge of regret, pity or sadness in his eyes. Instead, he had smiled at the girl as she had said something to him, and left, with his mother clutching his hand, urging him to follow her. He hadn’t even looked back at him as he had gone back into his large manor house, back to his family, his privileges, his future, his father, to everything Stuart hadn’t had. 

The next time Stuart had seen him had been a few years later at a ball. Paul had been older, grown up to be a handsome young lad, with delicate features, a perfect posture, an impeccable style of dress, and more charm than any one person should possess. He had stood outside in the garden talking to another boy, about a year older than himself, and had been teasing him, flirting with him, deliberately playing him like he played everyone else, only to be called back into the manor by the same red-haired girl. Paul had kissed the boy’s cheek, whispered something in his ear, and had left with an amused chuckle. 

The boy had never been heard of again since. Rumours had spread that he had stolen from the McCartneys and had been chased out of town, but Stuart had drawn his own conclusions. He had seen how Paul had played him, how he had enjoyed the power he had held over the boy, and he realised that day that what had happened to that boy, had happened to him. Paul had played him. For nothing but his own pleasure and amusement. 

Paul, Stuart had realised, had told his father about what had happened by the lake that day out of boredom, knowing how his father would react. He had seen him as nothing more than toy to be played with, just as he saw everyone else, and he had ruined his life. And for what? A few minutes of enjoyment perhaps? Only to forget about him soon after and return to that red-haired girl? Stuart hadn’t been surprised when John had told him she was his fiancee. If anything, it had seemed that he had known it long before anyone else had, perhaps even before Paul and Miss Asher themselves. 

John had to admit that he wasn’t as certain about Stuart’s conclusions as the man was himself. Of course, he hadn’t been part of the conflict himself, but they seemed unfounded. But then again, was it really such a stretch? After all, he had heard countless of similar stories about the McCartneys, and although most of them weren’t concerned with romantic and personal relationships, it wasn’t strange to believe they, and especially Paul, would shy away from anything like that. His brief conversation with Mimi before he had left for France kept coming back to him as well, and everything she had told him about Paul and his family, what they had done, what they were like, how she had experienced them. How Paul had been a master manipulator, always charming, always knowing what to say, always playing people for his own enjoyment.

What if Paul had been playing John all this time too?

A much darker and more unpleasant thought entered John’s mind as he considered that option. It sent a shiver down his spine and made the hairs on his arms stand up as his stomach churned. It couldn’t be true. He meant more to Paul than that. 

Looking out of the window, John could see the McCartney manor emerge before them as the carriage turned another corner and started driving up towards the large iron gate that was blocking the path to the house to keep unwanted guests out. It opened up before them as they approached and John felt that familiar sense of awe building up inside him at the sight of it, the opened gates revealing the manor house behind it. The sight, however, although gorgeous, daunted him, but he knew he had no other choice but to go through it. 

He was supposed to meet Mr McCartney Sr. about his son’s portrait and discuss its progress. Mr Edwards had arranged it for him on Mr McCartney’s insistence and John had been left with no other choice but to do what was expected of him. Strangely, it was not so much his appointment with Mr McCartney Sr. that made him reluctant to visit the manor, but rather the chance of seeing his eldest son, Paul. 

He hadn’t seen him since his conversation with Stuart and he knew they were going to have to discuss what he had learnt. He needed to know whether Stuart had told him the truth, but at the same time John feared the answer, feared the possibility that Paul had done all that Stuart had said, but more so, that he might be doing the same thing with John. He didn’t want to be Paul’s toy, someone for him to occupy himself with and play with, only to be discarded when he grew tired of him. 

But… was that not what he had done with most of the other men Paul had told him about? The stable boy? His father’s colleague? The French boys? Perhaps he had done the same to the young actor, but had come to regret it later. The idea that John might only be there for Paul to entertain himself before he would get married and would need to settle down was not improbable. But it couldn’t be, right? John didn’t know what to believe anymore.  

As they drove through the gate and over the gravel pathway, John could see people happily working on the estate. It was a nice day out, with the sun shining brightly, and although it was chilly, there was barely any wind, making it relatively pleasant to be outside. The large scruffy dog John had seen before and still assumed belonged to Paul, was running around as well, sniffing around in the planters and annoying the gardeners as she walked over all the plants with her big hairy paws. The gardener closest to her, a young scrawny man with big bushy eyebrows, was laughing loudly at her antics, amused by the highly annoyed look on the face of his colleague. The sight had a somewhat soothing effect on John, although his nerves quickly came back to him as the carriage came to a halt right before the stone white steps leading up to the large front door. 

With some help from the driver, John stepped out of the carriage, the large canvas with a quick copy of Paul’s portrait held tightly under his arm. He hadn´t dared to bring the actual portrait with him, despite Mr McCartney’s request to do so, fearing something would happen to it. An older man of about fifty with greying hair and a neat black suit stood waiting for him on the steps and offered John a polite bow as he came over to him. 

“Mr Lennon, I presume?”he asked and John nodded politely. “Mr McCartney is still in a meeting I’m afraid, so he asked me to escort you into the parlour and have you wait for him there. It will not take longer than a few minutes, I assure you. If you would follow me?” John nodded a second time and with that he was being led inside the house. 

It was as grand as John had imagined it to be: the entrance was of double-story height, with two large mahogany staircases on either side of the room, a large chandelier hanging in the middle and large wooden doors on all sides of the room. The marble flooring was impeccably clean and John could hear his every step as he was being led through one of the doors at the side, into a hallway, and through another door that led into an airy parlour with large windows overlooking the formal gardens. On the large coffee table between the white sofas and the fireplace stood a tray with a couple of glasses and a carafe of water. The walls had various paintings hanging from them, most of which portraits of great skill, though many depicted old deceased relatives, which made John wonder where Paul’s portrait would be displayed.

“Please refrain from touching anything. You may have something refreshing to drink while you wait. I shall be back to fetch you once Mr McCartney is ready to see you. If there are any issues, just ring the bell next to the door and someone will come for you,” the older man said, and John thanked him to say he understood, before he was left alone. He put his things down on the floor by one of the sofas and poured himself a glass of water, before he began to examine the room, his curiosity taking over. He had never been in a house like this before, and most likely he never would be again. 

The McCartneys were rich. If John hadn’t noticed it before, he sure knew it now. Every object in the room, not matter how small or insignificant, looked like it cost more than John made in a month. The white couches were spotless, every little nook and cranny looked impossibly clean and the few pieces of decorative sculptures, as well as the art on the walls looked like they were made by the best artists of the age. Then again, Paul was an art collector, albeit amateuristically - his own words, not John’s - so John didn’t doubt he would often bring works he fancied home from his trips to Paris or London. 

A shiny grand piano standing by the large windows on the other side of the room caught John’s eye as he turned away from the sitting area. It had been a long time since he had last played - his aunt had a piano at home which he used to play on whenever he had had the opportunity to, having had a deep love and passion for music for as long as he could remember, but since he had moved away, the only chance to play was when he was visiting, which wasn’t often. 

The butler - John assumed he was the butler - had told him not to touch anything, and really, John did not even want to touch anything in fear of breaking anything, but his fingers itched as he stared at the ivory keys. And really, what harm could it do? It wasn’t likely he would accidentally break a piano by playing it. 

He smiled, put his glass on the coffee table and glanced at the door to make sure it was closed, before he slid onto the piano stool, making sure his back was perfectly straight like he had been taught. He stared down at the keys for a moment, and then gently pressed one. The sound the instrument produced was clear and perfectly in tune, and John pressed another, this one slightly higher, and another one, lower, and another one, even lower, until a soft melody began to sound through the room, echoing back to him against the walls. 

The feeling of the cold keys against his fingertips felt good, familiar and comfortable, and John easily fell into a song he hadn’t played for months. He occasionally hit the wrong key, but he managed it all the way through, ending in a small piece of improvisation. Smiling to himself, he started another piece, one his mother had taught him before she had passed away. He became fully lost in it, and didn’t hear it when the door opened. He only noticed someone had come in when he caught a glimpse of him in the corner of his eye, making him jump in his seat in surprise, the song getting rudely cut off. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Paul said and walked over to the man behind the piano, an apologetic smile on his lips. Instinctively John got up from his seat and took a step back as he muttered an apology, which only made the other man chuckle. “You have nothing to apologise for, John. I enjoyed hearing you play.” 

“It’s just… I was told not to touch anything,” John said, and watched as Paul sat himself down behind the piano, raising his right hand to start playing a small tune himself as he glanced sideways at John, his eyes kind and inviting. 

“I take it our butler told you that,” he said, and smiled when John nodded. “I thought so. Our butler, Mr Garrow, tends to worry excessively about the state of anything in the house he is in charge of. Which constitutes  _ everything _ . Come sit.” He patted the empty space on the piano stool besides him and John did as told, his cheeks flushing as he sat with his thigh squished firmly against Paul’s, the seat being too small for the both of them. The younger man, however, didn’t appear to mind and played a whimsical tune with his right hand, high up on the keys. Occasionally he would glance back at John, as if waiting for him to join him in his play, but John refrained, not wanting to interrupt and potentially ruin Paul’s song, enjoying the musicality in it. Of course, Paul would be an excellent pianist.

“How did you know I was here?” John asked instead and Paul hummed at the question, his fingers never stopping their play. 

“I was studying, actually. Latin. The library has a brilliant view and it is not unusual for me to occasionally glance outside to enjoy it. Especially when it’s a subject like Latin. I just happened to see your carriage approach and was very pleased to see you stepping out of it. My father always lets his guests wait in the parlour, so I decided to come by and pay you a visit. It’s not often we get to see each other outside our meetings. Not since Paris.” 

“Do you often think about Paris?” John found himself asking, a lump in his throat. Paul shrugged. 

“Why? Do you?” 

John couldn’t answer. He raised a hand and joined Paul in his play, providing a grounding left hand to the airy melody of Paul’s right, allowing their fingers to dance together as they improvised their own piece of music. It wasn’t anything spectacular that came out of it, but they could easily feel what the other wanted and intended to do, and added with skill to the other’s play, creating a soft and gentle tune that seemed to work. 

“You play well,” Paul noted, and John smiled at the compliment. “What was the song you were playing. Before I interrupted you?”

“Oh. It was nothing special.”

“No, tell me,” Paul insisted, nudging John’s side with his elbow. John’s fingers stilled on the keys for a moment and he glanced uncertainly at the man beside him. Paul, however, wasn’t looking at him, but only looked down at his fingers, his expression peaceful as he played, his eyes soft and his lips slightly parted in concentration. It was rare for John to see him like this, with his guard down, nothing hiding what he was feeling, and John thought he looked most beautiful like this, when John could see all of him. This wasn’t Paul playing him. This was Paul as no one saw him. Only him. 

“It was an Irish folk song,” John said after another moment of silence, and he took a deep breath before he continued, his hands resuming their play, “I- I can’t remember the name or the words, but… My mum taught it me. Before she passed away.” 

This time, it were Paul’s fingers that halted on the keys, and John could see a flicker of pain on his features before that wall came back up, hiding whatever glimpse John had been allowed to see from view as Paul laid his hands in his lap, his aura suddenly a cloud of sadness and empathy. Immediately, John retreated his fingers as well.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Paul said, a deep sadness in his voice that did not sound like the feeling of discomfort and awkwardness people usually showed when they would hear about his mother. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of his own mother. 

Everyone knew Mary McCartney had died from sickness when her two boys had been only young, but John had never quite realised what that had meant for Paul. He had never needed to, the McCartneys never having been people he had needed to concern himself with, seeing as they were so far apart on the social ladder. They had always seemed like this far away concept, in a way not even real.

But now, with his relationship with Paul having developed the way it had, things were different. He saw them differently. And he could see they were hurting, just like everyone else. Paul was hurting. He had lost his mother, just like he had, and had been too young to know how to deal with that, just like he had been, and a sense of guilt overcame John at the realisation. He wondered if he ought to say something, but the tiny glimpses of pain he saw in the other’s eyes kept him from doing so, knowing it would only make things worse if he did. 

“My family is part Irish. I always felt connected to the place, you know? My mum knew that so she would tell me stories about my great, great grandfather and his move to Liverpool when he was barely seventeen. She taught me folk songs as well, taught me how to sing them and play them on the piano.”

“Have you ever been there?” Paul asked, his voice sounding broken. John shook his head. 

“I’d like to someday. My family never could afford to travel like that.” Paul looked at him curiously at that, his eyes never quite meeting his, as if he was embarrassed, as if he had never considered money could be an issue for anyone.  

“Would you play it for me? The folk song, I mean,” he asked. He had his mask still on, but John had a good idea of what lay behind it, so he agreed. He shuffled a little closer to the other man so he was sitting more in the middle, giving his hands enough room to play, and Paul helpfully moved as far aside as he could without falling off, his body now fully pressed against the other man. He watched John’s hands closely as John rested them on the keys before he began to play. 

He struggled a bit at first, his nerves getting the best of him with Paul sitting besides him, watching his every move. But eventually he started to get the hang of it and he felt the nerves leave him. He started as Paul suddenly began to speak, and his fingers slipped on the keys.

“What happened to her? Your mother?” 

“She died.” John said nothing for a while, and his fingers trembling as they tried to find their positions again, but he regained his composure with relative ease and sighed. 

“She-” he continued, his throat squeezing tight as his feelings regarding that day came flooding back to him. He never spoke about his mother, to no one. He had done so only ever to Mimi, and had always considered that to be enough. But now… he wanted to. 

“She never was the best mother. I had been living with my aunt since I was six and I never minded that, but… she was my mother. I visited her a lot. She taught me the piano and how to sing. And then one day… she was gone.” John paused for a moment, needing a second to retain control over his emotions. He had expected Paul to say something, anything, but instead he kept quiet and kept looking at John’s hands. For some reason, that was better. 

“It was an accident at the factory she used to work at. One of the machines broke down. They did that sometimes, so my mother went down beneath it to fix it, but… She got stuck. And when the machine started working again… She was… She was crushed. The men who told us said accidents like that happen sometimes. I had never seen my aunt so furious.” John forced a sad smile in the hope to lighten the mood and try keep himself from feeling loss again, the agonising and dulling pain of having someone ripped away from you like that, so suddenly, and without reason. 

He had stopped playing somewhere in his story and the silence around them was deafening. John needed sound, needed something to ground him, but Paul wouldn’t speak. He wasn’t looking at him anymore either, but was now staring down at his hands in his lap, his eyes wide and his cheeks slightly pale in shock. Instinctively, John reached out and embraced Paul’s hands with his own. 

“You must miss her,” Paul finally spoke, and John knew he didn’t have to answer that question. Paul knew. 

“Seeing as we are already discussing dead family members,” John said, still hoping to bring some lightness to the conversation, though he could see from his lover’s face, it was hardly working, “what about your mother? I know she was ill, but-” 

“She was the most wonderful woman I have ever known. She-,” Paul said, and he swallowed thickly before he continued, his fingers grasping at John’s for support. “I know most people will say that, but… she was, at least to me. Mike and I were never told she was ill. When her condition turned critical, we were sent to Scotland, and when we came back, well… We were told on our way home, but… Nothing quite prepares you, does it? When we got home, she was already gone, the funeral had already happened, and every part of the house felt cold and empty, lacking and different. The first few weeks, I barely left her grave.”

“They… Never told you? They never told you your mother was ill?” John stared at the younger man in disbelief as the latter shook his head. “Weren’t you angry?” 

“I was at first. But it’s no use being angry about something like that. It doesn’t change anything, so I don’t mind anymore.” 

“You don’t- Paul, your mother was ill and dying and no one ever told you! They had the funeral before you even knew she was  _ dead _ !” Paul flinched at the words, but John ignored it, anger and disbelief swarming through his head, both at what had been done to Paul, as well as the man’s complete indifference about it. “How can you not mind?! They should have told you.”

“John, my father only wanted to protect us. There was nothing we could do with that information if we had known. It would only have made things worse. If we had known, we would only have constantly feared for our mother’s life. We wouldn’t have been able to spend the little time we had left with her like we always did, without worry. It was the best for us.” 

“You don’t honestly believe that.” 

“It would only have caused unnecessary pain, John,” Paul said, with more force that John had expected. “My parents… they wanted us to live on carefree and enjoy our time with our mother in the best way we could, without the pain, without the worry. Sometimes it’s better not to know certain things and enjoy your time with that person without those intervening emotions.” 

“Well… I would have wanted to know. It doesn’t seem right,” John said and he could feel Paul shift uncomfortably beside him. It remained quiet for a while after that, a certain tension hanging in the air that John could not quite place. 

Paul, however, was still refusing to look at him, and did not look in the mood for answering any more intrusive personal questions. He raised his hands and started playing again, something mournful, despite being played at the higher octaves. Not daring to speak another word, John merely listened for a while as he thought over what Paul had told him. 

He still found it odd Paul did not seem to mind at all that no one had told him about his mother’s illness before she had passed away. He had had his mother ripped away so suddenly, at the exact moment where they had begun to rekindle their relationship, where she had begun to feel more like a mother again, he would have done anything to know she had been about to leave him again. There were so many things he would have done differently, things he wouldn’t have said, or things he wished he had told her if he had known, and that’s what hurt him most. For Paul to not mind… it was strange and unthinkable to him. 

It wasn’t long after that the butler, Mr Garrow, returned with a polite knock on the door, giving John time to stand up and move away from Paul so they were at a more appropriate distance from one another. Mr Garrow paused in surprise as he saw Paul sitting at the piano, but didn’t say anything about it and merely greeted him with a polite nod. 

“Mr Lennon? Mr McCartney is ready to see you now,” he said and John nodded as he began to collect his things, taking deep breaths to calm himself and making sure to leave Paul with a polite and distant “afternoon, sir” before he followed Mr Garrow out and through numerous hallways to Mr McCartney’s study. Paul’s playing continued to follow him, even when he was well out of hearing range. 

As they came to stand before two large doors of a rich, polished wood, John felt his nerves coming back to him. He had been so worried about seeing Paul, he hadn’t realised till now, when there was only a set of doors between him and the other man, that he was going to meet Mr McCartney Sr. His stomach did an odd little twist at the thought, and he took a deep breath as the butler opened the door for him.

“Mr McCartney, sir? Mr Lennon’s here to see you,” he said and with that John was gently pushed inside. A large mahogany desk stood a few meters away from him at the other end of the room, behind which a thin, balding man sat. He was shorter than John had expected him to be, and although his smile was welcoming and charming - he was briefly reminded of Paul - it had something unnerving about it at the same time, as if he knew more about John than John even knew about himself. 

“ _ I’m having an affair with your eldest son and you would most likely have me killed if you knew _ ,” John thought, suddenly overcome with shame and guilt, and stepped inside to offer the man his hand. “ _ He is so good with his fingers. _ ” 

“Mr McCartney, it is an honour to finally meet you,” he said instead and took a seat in one of the armchairs that were placed before the desk when Mr McCartney offered him one. 

“Likewise, Mr Lennon. My son has been telling me only positive things about you.”

“That’s very good to hear, sir,” John said in reply and sat in silence for a while as Mr McCartney looked him up and down, studying him and taking in every little detail, like Paul had done the first time they had met. They were a lot alike, John noticed, not only in mannerisms, but in looks as well. Both had the same arching eyebrows, the same ears and similar lips, though John could easily see Paul must have gotten a lot of his features from his mother as well. They held themselves in similar ways too, and John wiggled uncomfortably in his seat as he tried to expel all thought of the younger man. “ _ Your son took me on a holiday to Paris and posed for me naked. _ ”

“Mr Lennon, I must admit I had my doubts when Mr Edwards suggested we would let you paint my son’s portrait, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised so far. From what my son has told me, you are not only talented, but a true professional as well.” 

“I do my best, sir,” John said politely. “ _ Except every time he poses for me I want to crawl between his thighs and stay there forever _ .” He cursed his thoughts and tried to push them away, but he couldn’t keep them from popping up. “ _ He likes it when I watch him. _ ” 

“Yes, I appreciate that, only… well, I wanted to ask if it would be possible for you to finish the portrait a couple weeks early. You see, my son is getting married in a few weeks  and I would like his portrait to be finished before that.” 

“I- yes, sir. Certainly. Erm… Congratulations. When would you be needing it?” John asked, forcing a smile and trying not to look to shocked at the news that Paul’s wedding wasn’t as far away as he had thought. Mr McCartney, thankfully, did not seem to notice. 

“That is what I wanted to discuss with you. You see, I know these things take time and I do not want you to have to rush through it. I do want the portrait to be of the highest quality you can manage, and I understand that takes time. Do you mind if I…” Mr McCartney gestured at the large canvas at John’s side and John immediately got up and began to carefully unfold it from its wrappings, while Mr McCartney made room on his desk. 

“Please bare in mind, it is only a hastily-made copy. I didn’t want to bring the original one, as I was afraid something would happen to it,” John said as he laid the portrait out, biting his tongue as he saw Paul staring up at him from the canvas, the likeness being uncanny, even in this one. It was the first time he had shown it to anyone but Paul or Stuart or Mr Edwards, and he couldn't help but feel nervous, hoping Mr McCartney liked it. It was strange looking at it now rather than on his easel back at the atelier, and he couldn’t help but fear something about it would give him and Paul away, like a certain brush stroke, a certain detail, or a hidden look in Paul’s eyes. 

Mr McCartney inspected it closely, occasionally humming in a manner that sounded neither positive nor negative in John’s ear. Despite his nerves, he didn’t say anything or ask any questions, knowing from his experience with Paul, the man’s father would most likely not react positively to that and simply watched on, his hands behind his back so Mr McCartney wouldn’t see him fidgeting. When the man then finally straightened out his back and turned to John was a broad smile on his lips, John heaved an unintended sigh of relief. 

“I should have known better than to doubt my son’s taste in art. If this is only a quick copy, I cannot wait to see the real thing. How long do you think you would need to keep up this standard of quality, Mr Lennon?” 

“Perhaps seven or eight weeks. But it depends on how much time you can offer me,” John said, trying not to think that he may never see Paul again once the portrait was finished. Seven or eight weeks wasn’t a long time. 

“Eight weeks would be prefect, Mr Lennon. You must be thrilled to finally be able to finish this project. I admit is has been a long one,” Mr McCartney said as he took his seat again and waved at the portrait to let John know he had finished with it. John immediately started wrapping it back up into the large piece of white cloth he had brought with him, and smiled at the man as he shook his head. 

“Not at all, sir. It has been a pleasure to work for you,” he said and Mr McCartney nodded in response. 

“I hope my son has behaved himself well.”

“Yes, sir. He has. He has been most cooperative,” John said and could not help the little grin pulling on the corners of his mouth.  

“That’s good. Well, thank you, Mr Lennon. I will contact Mr Edwards personally to propose a proper date on which you may hand over your work. Thank you for your time,” he said and with that, he put on a pair of glasses on his nose and waved at the door, sending John on his way, before he turned to the newspaper lying in front of him. John stared at him dumbfounded for a moment, before he quickly gathered his things and bid the man goodbye before he left. 

Although he was relieved the meeting was over and the man had been pleased with his work, John still felt dejected and downcast as he stood outside the study. He had been given eight weeks to finish Paul’s portrait, which was plenty of time - he could finish it twice in as little as six weeks if he needed to - but after those eight weeks, not only would the meeting between him and Paul stop, he would most likely never see the man again. He would be married soon after and there would be no opportunity for them to meet outside the comfort and safety of the atelier. He had known their relationship would come to an end, but to be given such a fixed date… it made it all the more real. 

Perhaps Paul had been right, John thought as Mr Garrow led him through the halls of the manor back outside where his carriage was waiting for him. Perhaps it is sometimes better not to know certain things.

 

***

 

Paul stood silently overlooking the garden and driveway from his bedroom window, his hands behind his back, his legs comfortably apart, his shoulders and back straight, and his chin up high. He was standing exactly how he had always been taught to stand, but whereas it would normally help him feel strong and in control, he now felt his body slumping whenever he let his thoughts drift even for only a second. His eyes felt heavy and hurt from lack of sleep, but he forced them to remain open as he looked down at the carriage standing below. 

He hadn’t stayed long in the parlour after John had left, and rather than going back to the library to continue his studies, he had gone to his bedroom where he now still was. He had sat there on his couch in silence for awhile, thinking and worrying, before he had moved to the window, needing to see John again before he left. 

Time seemed to go horrendously slow, guilt and longing grasping a hold of his body as he waited, until finally the familiar auburn head appeared below him. His chest tightened painfully at the sight and his throat turned into sandpaper as he watched John exchange a few words with Mr Garrow while the driver helped him put his things safely into the carriage. 

He could see how tense John was, his movements tight and forced and his shoulders and arms were strained, as if it took him great effort to control himself. His expression, although too far away for Paul to judge properly, was troubled, and he had what Paul suspected was a knit in his brow. He knew John thought he didn’t notice those things when they were together, but although John had been harder to read than other people, Paul had always had knack for reading body language and he had quickly caught up on the signs, though he still had troubled interpreting them. It was enough, though, and Paul preferred John to remain unaware, fearing he would pull away from him even more if he knew. 

He let out a sigh as he watched John climb into the carriage, and his breath stocked as the man suddenly turned around, his eyes scanning the many windows on the building, until they finally landed onto Paul’s, catching sight of him. Paul stared down at him, unmoving, his breathing shallow, frozen into place as John offered him a pained smile. Paul knew what that smile meant. He knew what his father had discussed with John, or rather, he knew why John had been called to him, and his chest ached as he looked down at him, wishing, if only for a moment, he could reach out for him and touch him, guilt gnawing at him. 

Finally, he had to look away from the other man, and he closed his eyes as he turned his back towards the window, taking a few steps away from it so John wouldn’t be able to see him. He took a couple of deep breaths, his shoulders slumping, and let himself collapse onto his bed. He needed sleep, but countless of thoughts swirled around in his head, making it impossible for him to find rest, and whenever he closed his eyes  he saw John, sitting beside him at the piano, so close and yet so closed off. He rubbed at them until he saw sparks of colours before his eyes to try banish the sight, but not matter how hard he tried, John was always there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to keep you guys updated, I'll be working on chapter 4 of Poetry Nights next, after which I'll be doing working on Art and Obligation again. The collaboration with ChutJeDors (called Ten Minutes, check it out here on AO3 if you're still looking for something else to read) is completely separate from that. 
> 
> Also for those who'd like to know, Edinburgh is great so far. My courses are all very interesting (though I still need to get used to doing all the readings again, but it's getting there) and the people here are generally really nice and there's tons of fun things to do. I'm relatively settled now and so I hope that means I won't be needing another 3 weeks to post again ;) But yeah, things are going well for me and I'm enjoying myself here so far. 
> 
> Oh, and please comment :) I love reading them all and it's great to hear what people think and all that. Thank guys! Love you <3


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After way to long, here is finally a new chapter of this fic! I am honestly so sorry for the slow updates. I really hope that will change soon, but we shall see. Thanks so much for all the support and the comments and everything. They really keep me going. 
> 
> This chapter was a little odd to write, because although I got the words down relatively quickly, I struggled with the editing and getting it right, but I think it's good the way it is now. Be ready to get to know Paul in this chapter! And what could this ball be about people keep talking about, huh? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. At least the lenght of them is getting longer, so I hope that at least somewhat makes up for the longer waiting times. I'll be doing the next chapter of Poetry Night next, as per usual, and have something special planned for Christmas, so get excited for that! I only have about 2 weeks of university to go before the Christmas holidays, so hopefully, I get to post more then. I really miss posting frequently... 
> 
> But yeah, enjoy and please leave a comment to let me know what you thought! I can't wait to read them ;) <3

Winter had arrived in Liverpool, making the grand old manor house feel cold and drafty as the piercing wind rushed over the sandstone blocks, forcing its way inside through little cracks and crannies in the window frames along with the icy rain that crystallised at night when the temperature dropped to close to zero, creating intricate little patterns on the cool glass which could be seen in the early mornings with the sunrise before they melted away. It was particularly cold for late November and the weather seemed to have dropped on the city without warning. The McCartney household staff had been reduced by half due to people falling ill, catching colds and fevers, and committing them to their beds. George’s wife Pattie had fallen ill as well, and George had worried endlessly about her and the fate of their unborn baby until Paul had been forced to send him home to look after her. His father had been none too happy with this decision, but Paul had not for a moment regretted it, glad to have at least bettered someone’s life, especially now his own was in such a dire state.

The fireplace in his bedroom was roaring constantly, keeping the room warm and pleasant despite the bad condition of the age-old windows, which didn’t seem to do much for keeping the cold out, and for once Paul was glad his room was situated above the kitchens below, the heat from the stoves travelling up every evening and warming his bed. All in all, Paul considered his bedroom to be one of the more pleasant rooms during these rough winter months and Martha seemed to agree, laying ever curled up on the rug Paul had laid out for her by the fire, snoring contently and refusing to move. She had never been one for cold dreary weather like this and was more than happy to curl up in bed with Paul at the end of each day to share body warmth. It was one of the few positives the winter weather brought with it. 

While Martha lay fast asleep by the fire, occasionally letting out tiny barks and growls as she dreamt, her body jerking and twitching in that way that would usually have Paul watching her with an adoring, yet slightly worried, smile, Paul sat behind his desk, pen in hand and a multitude of tiny white papers in front of him, waiting to be written on. Next to him lay an extensive list of names and addresses, all of which needed to be specified on each of the little cards as Paul wrote the same combination of words over and over again until his hand began to complain. The task proved dull and tedious, and the fact that every word he wrote onto the clean white paper in his neat and practised hand, was a harsh reminder of the ever looming inevitability of his upcoming marriage, made the whole ordeal a tiring and highly stressful endeavor. But, as with many things in his life, he had no other choice but to do as told, his father having given him till the end of the weekend to finish them. The list of names, however, appeared never-ending, as did the stack of cards. 

Two weeks had gone by since John had met with his father to discuss the portrait and Paul’s marriage. According to him, Jim had given him another six weeks to finish the portrait, which at this point meant they only had another four weeks left together, their last meeting being scheduled just two days before the ball for which Paul was currently writing invitations. The convenience of this timing left Paul with little doubt in his mind that his father intended to reveal the portrait during the ball, marking it the perfect celebratory end to Paul’s life as a bachelor. 

He shook his head at the thought. He didn’t want to be this negative about the whole affair, knowing it wasn’t fair to Jane, who had already been forced into this uncomfortable position, which she did not deserve. She deserved more than a husband who did not love her with a family that did everything to regulate his behaviour and make sure he did not step outside the lines drawn out for him since the day of his birth and which had only gotten more restrictive at the first signs of his “unfortunate fault” as his father called it. She didn’t deserve any of it and Paul figured the least he could do was to make it as pleasant and “happy” for her as possible, not just the marriage but the engagement as well. He did love her, even if his love lacked some of the most essential aspects required in marriage. 

He feared, however, he wasn’t doing enough.

Although the wedding itself would not be until late February, his father was set on making their engagement known as soon as possible and as open and public as he could manage without risking the danger of less perfect aspects of their relationship - especially in terms of his son - seeping through the cracks. The timing of the ball however, it being less than four weeks away, left the guests with little time to prepare for it and to make the necessary arrangements if they had any other engagements. His concerns about this had been met with a dismissive gesture of a hand and his father’s reassurance that if people had other obligations on the evening of December 20th, they would cancel them. Paul had to admit he was most likely right.

His hand, however, would have been eternally grateful for some extra time to write the invitations. It was covered in ink, and his fingers hurt whenever he tried to stretch them, having grown accustomed to the constant crutching hold he had on the pen. More than once he had needed to stop for a moment due to cramps and his eyes had grown tired from the constant, intense focus on every sentence, word and letter he all but drew onto the spotless white paper cards, every single drop of ink needing to be absolutely perfect and nothing less. Two days he had been working on them, and he only had this afternoon and evening left to finish them. The end seemed nowhere near yet. 

Sighing, he finished another card and carefully put it on the stack with the others and crossed the last name starting with “O” off the list, before taking a new card, which, he saw, glancing at the list of names, would be made out to the Peterson family. He didn’t know why his father insisted on his writing every invitation personally; he didn’t even know the Peterson family! Still, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and wrote their names in a neat and steady hand, minding every angle and curve and doing them exactly how he had been taught. 

He jumped in his seat as he felt a hand on his shoulder, having been too focused on his writing to have heard anybody come in. The movement caused his hand to slip on the paper, and a thick black line of ink now stretched across the whole of the card, rendering it unsalvageable. Paul cursed under his breath and turned to see who had caused him to make this horrid mistake. More work was the last thing he needed right now.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Paul. I thought you heard me come in.” It was Jane. She was standing beside him, holding a cup of tea which Paul hoped was for him. He could do with one. Though annoyed, he forced himself to smile and shook his head. 

“No, it’s okay, Jane. I wasn’t happy with it, anyway,” he lied, but Jane looked unconvinced. Still, she didn’t say anything about it and instead put the cup of tea down on the desk in front of him. A biscuit lay beside it on the saucer. 

“I brought you some tea. I thought you could use it. You’ve been up here for hours. So long, in fact, I’ve had to resort to your dear brother for company. He’s good enough company, although I would have preferred yours, of course.” 

“I’m sorry, Jane.” 

“Don’t be. You’ve been busy enough as it is without having to look after me as well. How are the invitations coming along?” she asked, perching herself on the edge of his desk as she picked up the stack of written cards and began flipping through them. Paul sighed, exhausted, and rested his head in his hand as he placed his elbow on the desk and watched her, following the movements of her eyes and fingers as she read all the names, her eyes occasionally coming up to look at him. He was glad she’d come up to see him, appreciating the distraction she offered. The way she was handling the cards was somewhat unnerving, however, making him worry she’d ruin one by accident somehow - either by tearing it or dropping it or smudging the ink with her fingers - and make him have to rewrite it. He didn’t ask her to put them down, though, secretly wanting her to. 

She didn’t.

“Briefly said? Slowly. In case you were hoping for a longer answer: I’ve started on the invitations for the people whose names start with ‘p’ just now, and I am convinced my hand had developed a mind of his own and is plotting against me now, hoping to overthrow its master and stop him from writing anything more ever again.” 

Jane gave him an empathetic look in return as she finished flipping through the cards and gently pushed them back into a neat little stack, which she placed back on the desk. “If you need any help...” she suggested, reaching over to pick up the list of addresses and her eyes widened as she saw the length of it. “It’s hardly seems possible for you to write  _ all  _ of them!”

“Darling, I agree, but you know my father insists I write them all myself and I wouldn’t put it past him to inspect them after I’ve finished them. I’m going to be the head of the household soon -  _ my  _ household - and this is what I’m going to have to do from now on. It’s only good manners.” 

“As if anyone is going to notice…” Jane remarked, mumbling, and Paul grimaced at the numerous times he had said those exact same words himself to his father whenever he made him help writing the invitations. “For practise” he would say, and Paul had always been met with the same basic explanation whenever he would question the need for it. It was an explanation he gave Jane now too, and he hated himself for it. 

“Good manners often go unnoticed. It’s the point of them.” 

Jane scoffed. 

“Paul,” she said, reaching out to cup her fiance’s cheek in her hand, gently turning his head to make him look at her, “this isn’t you.” 

“I don’t have a choice.” 

“We always have a choice. You don’t have to be like your father.” 

Paul shook his head and turned back to job at hand, picking up a blank card from the pile and dipping his pen into the ink again before starting over, writing  _ “Dear Mr and Mrs Peterson _ ” in neat cursive letters at the top of the page. It didn’t look quite as perfect as the original, but it would have to do. 

“Did you talk to John about it, yet?” Jane asked. She had gotten up and was now sitting on the sofa by the fire, her arm stretched out to pet Martha, who leaned into her touch and gave her wrist a lazy lick out of thanks, eager for some attention as she lay dozing. The sight of her, sitting comfortably on his sofa, in her light blue dress, her copper hair tied up loosely on her head, petting his dog as they spoke, was both beautiful and terrifying as Paul realised that was going to be his life from February onward. In a little more than a year with the added image of a baby in her arms. He had to look away. 

“Talk about what?” he asked and he could practically feel the disappointed look on her face as she looked at him, both knowing Paul had understood her perfectly.

“The ball. And what it is on the occasion of?” she said as if she was speaking to someone exceptionally stupid. Paul hummed, shaking his head.

“No. Not yet.”

“Paul-”

“I’ll tell him!”

“When?” 

“Soon.”

“You said that two weeks ago. Paul… he has the right to know. You don’t have much longer. What else are you going to do? Break it off on the day itself?” Jane said and Paul sighed as he put his pen back down, sliding the card away from him so he would not accidentally ruin it, and turned to look at Jane again.

“It’s not that easy, Jane. You don’t-” cutting himself off, Paul took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. “What benefit does knowing have? It only distracts you to know.”

“You know that isn’t true, Paul! And you had a fixed end date before this, didn’t you? Our  _ wedding _ ? Or did you plan on continuing it after that as well?” Jane asked and Paul sighed as he took his head in his hand, feeling a headache coming up.

“I wouldn’t do that, Jane. It would put him in too much danger. Not to mention it wouldn’t be fair to you. I know I have to tell him, but…”  _ It wasn’t the same _ . Jane didn’t understand that, but how could she when he barely understood it himself. And knowing did distract. It distracted him! He’d prefer not knowing if he had a choice; to continue without knowing until one day it would be over. 

“You don’t want to hurt him, do you?” 

“Jane-”

“I know it’s hard, Paul…” she whispered, ignoring his faint attempts to contradict her and catching his eye. Her voice was soft and gentle and for a moment they merely looked at each other, sharing the same air. Paul was reminded of all the times he had been with John like this: close, touching, breathing in each other’s air, feeling the other’s warmth. He knew something ought to happen, but he felt nothing. He wanted to pull away, but before he had had the chance to, Jane had leaned in and kissed him. 

Her lips were soft, her movements careful, as if trying not to spook him, and her breath tasted sweet on his tongue, like caramel, but with a hint of bitterness from the tea she had been drinking downstairs. Her hands were still holding his, and although there was nothing about it that was  _ bad _ , it didn’t feel  _ good _ either, and it made Paul want to cry. He pulled away, shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry…” he said, forcing his eyes closed as he let his head hang in disappointment, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. It wouldn't help. It wouldn’t solve anything. Nothing could solve anything. Jane, God bless her, could not solve  _ anything _ . “I’m sorry.”

“No… No, Paul… _I’m_ sorry,” Jane whispered in return, shuffling even closer to him, and thus causing Paul to jerk away from her, needing space, needing to _get_ _away._ He was surprised at his own reaction, the intensity of it. Never had he really minded his attraction towards the wrong sex. Never had he been bothered by his lack of attraction to women. Never had he felt disgusted by himself. But now… he _did_ mind, he _was_ bothered, and he _was disgusted_... “Paul.. it’s fine. It’s okay. I know.”

“I- I  _ can’t _ , Jane. I just  _ can’t _ !” 

“I know. I know,” Jane repeated, as she began to retreat from him. Her warmth was the first thing that vanished, but unlike what he had thought, this didn’t make Paul feel any better either. He wanted to reach out for her, pull her to him, kiss her and hold her and hug her and _feel_. Feel something. _Anything_! But he was frozen in place, knowing that wasn’t going to help either. Nothing would. It would only hurt him. But maybe that was what he deserved. Was this his punishment?  “You know you’re going to have to eventually? You and I, I mean,” Jane said, her voice suddenly a lot colder and Paul nodded frantically. 

“Yes… I- I will. I just… I need time.”  _ You’ve had 22 years already. _ Jane didn’t say it, but Paul could hear her think it, and he didn’t even blame her for it. She was right. He was a failure and a coward who couldn’t even kiss his future wife without dissolving into a whimpering mess. His father was right. There  _ was _ something wrong with him. He was a disgrace to the family and if anyone was ever to find out… He swallowed thickly, not even daring to continue that thought. He was a weak and filthy disgrace and God hated him. His father hated him. 

Jane was retreating. Paul could feel her move away from him, staring at him, a mixture of empathy and misunderstanding in her gaze. Jane - sweet, gentle, kind-hearted Jane - she could never be angry with him or disgusted like she had every right to be. She ought to loath him, fault him for tricking her into this life of love-less marriage, constant adultery, and unhappiness. Paul would have preferred her to despise him, to hate him, be disgusted by him like everyone else. He didn’t deserve her. 

He didn’t deserve John.

“I don’t understand you, Paul,” Jane said finally, her voice quiet but angry, causing Paul to look up at her, wide-eyed, guilty, ashamed. “I try… Fuck, I  _ try _ … But sometimes… I just  _ can’t _ .” 

“Jane, I do love you,” Paul said, though he didn’t know why. Jane shook her head. 

“No, you don’t. Not in the way you love him,” she said and Paul swallowed thickly at that. He didn’t love John. He wanted to tell her, but something kept him from forming the words. After a small pause she added, “You know, I almost began to understand you. But the fact that you cannot even admit how much you love that man… not just to me, but to  _ yourself _ … that’s what baffles me most.” 

“Jane…” Paul tried, but she shook her head. 

“I need a moment, Paul. I can’t- It’s not just about you, this marriage. It’s not just about you…” she said and with that, she turned around and left, leaving Paul, broken and guilty, behind. 

***

She came back late that evening. Paul had been asleep for over three hours when he was awoken by the sound of his bedroom door opening. 

“Paul?” 

Groaning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he pushed himself up onto his elbow, turning his head towards the half-open door. It was too dark in the room to see, and Martha growled impatiently beside him as she too raised her head, ready to protect her owner if needed and Paul gently petted her to let her know it was alright. 

“Paul? Are you awake?” Jane’s voice came again and Paul sat up even more as he recognised her. He growled something unintelligible back at her, his voice was still too thick with sleep for him to produce anything more than some grumbles.  Clearing his throat, he tried again. 

“Jane? What are you doing here?” His voice was still barely more than some low growling, but at least he seemed to have made himself audible. Martha jumped off the bed to investigate, her paws clattering on the wooden floor as she snuffled her way over to the door, finally pausing as she reached Jane. When she didn’t bark, Paul knew for certain it was her. 

“Can I come in?” she asked and Paul frowned, finding it difficult to comprehend words at the moment, his mind still fuzzy from sleep. Eventually, as the words began to make sense to him, he nodded and growled an affirmative response, though he was not any less confused. Jane hadn’t spoken to him all day after she had left. What was she doing here now?

He could hear the door close in the dark and he shuffled over to make room on the bed, leaning across to his bedside table to light a candle. Before he could, though, Jane stopped him.

“I like it dark,” she whispered as the bed dipped, her voice closer than Paul had expected it to be, and he complied. They sat on the bed together for a while in silence, a wide gap between them, both afraid to speak, and Paul wondered what she was doing here. 

“I just…” Jane started after a good couple of minutes, and Paul could hear her taking a deep breath beside him to steady her trembling voice. “I’m sorry. For what I said.” 

“No. You were right. I-”

“No, Paul,” Jane interrupted him, and Paul fell silent at the intensity of her voice, having heard it like that only a handful of times before and never directed at him. She took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said what I’ve said. It was unfair. It’s just… sometimes it’s hard for me, to think about the fact that my future husband doesn’t only not love me, but does not find me attractive in the slightest - and no, don’t say you do love me, because that’s not the kind of love I’m talking about. But whatever I’m dealing with… I can’t blame you. Neither of us wanted this.” 

Paul hummed at that, not sure what else there was to say. Jane, however, wasn’t yet finished.

“What I mean to say, I guess, is that it frustrated me, to see you so caught up in another person, another  _ man _ , and when you didn’t react positively to me… I just… I’m sorry. You don’t disgust me and I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I know this is difficult for you and if you need time, then I understand that.” 

It remained silent between them after that. For a moment there was no need for words, just silence, and Paul smiled as Jane moved to curl up around him, laying her head on in his bare chest. 

“If anyone were to find us like this,” Paul could not help but point out, “I bet they’d be thrilled.” Jane chuckled at that and nodded, before softly sighing, rubbing her head in his chest. 

“I’ve been thinking...” she started, pausing to think about the best way to phrase this. Paul looked at her curiously. “If you wish to take a - well, I suppose ‘mistress’ wouldn’t be the correct term in this case, but you know what I mean - I would not mind.” She raised her head to look at him, eyes gentle and Paul stared at her for a moment, before shaking his head. 

“Jane, I don’t-”

“I mean it, Paul. I wouldn’t be opposed to it, both of us taking a lover.”

Paul didn’t say anything in reply to that, not knowing what to say or think and simply laid his arms around her with a sigh. Jane, however, looked serious. 

“At least think about it,” she said, running her hands over the naked skin of his chest in a comforting gesture, and Paul nodded. He knew Jane meant well suggesting they would both find their sexual gratification elsewhere, but to Paul it felt like another sign of defeat, another sign something was wrong with him, for the idea of Jane spending the nights with another man didn’t hurt his pride as much as he knew it should. If anything, he felt relieved, and if that wasn’t sickening, he did not know what was. 

***

Paul let his head rest on John’s naked thigh for a moment to catch his breath and smiled as he felt John’s fingers running through his hair, gently combing through it as he whispered soft words of encouragement under his breath, as if afraid he would stop. To appease him, Paul tightened his hold on him and angled his head up to press a light kiss to the underside of the reddened tip, drawing a moan from the man above him that made him chuckle, finding it rather adorable. 

It was still early in the afternoon, and they were lying in John’s bed, clothes strewn around the room from the haste and eagerness with which they had rid each other of their clothing, aching to have the other naked now they had a rare moment alone, the house being deserted except for the two of them. Once they had tumbled into bed, however, their haste had melted away and had made room for slow, languid kisses, lingering touches, and deep, low moans as they had explored each other, movements unhurried, taking their time to just  _ be _ for once. 

The idea to make their two-hour session, a three-hour one had been John’s, and despite Paul’s initial reluctance to it, fearing it would draw suspicions, he now declared the man a genius, enjoying the time they now had to explore and to feel and enjoy without a sense of hurry. He revelled the warm touch of the other man against his naked skin; the puffs of hot breaths that mingled with his own when they kissed or stared into each other’s eyes, their lips inches apart; the slight chill of the room against his heated body; the way the sheets rustled against his skin as they moved together; the way John held him; caressed him; smiled at him; whispered and moaned and gasped and muttered his name. 

He had taken his time with John, kissing and caressing him all over, needing to feel he was still there with him, physical, tangible,  _ his _ . He had worked him open slowly, dragging it out, bringing John to the brink before pulling him away again, had spent what felt like ages inside of him - though it had only been twenty minutes, twenty-five at the most - moving slowly, letting John feel every inch of him, thrusts smooth and direct, but too gentle, too soft and too slow to tip him over the edge, merely bringing him there again, until finally, Paul had come inside of him, leaving John unsatisfied on the bed. Before he had had the opportunity to complain, however, Paul had made himself comfortable between his legs and gingerly sucked the head of his cock into his mouth, and there it had been till now. He still found himself relishing in having John beneath him like this: beautiful, nonresistant and yielding to his every will as long as he wouldn’t stop touching him. 

To make it even better, all this was his to enjoy without the incessant nagging of the voice in his head, which he had been hearing since he had first realised his interest in boys at the young age of eleven, telling him to be careful, to be aware, to not make the wrong move and to hurry up before they would be caught. He preferred this, wished it could always be like this, and it hurt to think they could only have this now, with the end so near-at-hand. It was unfair and Paul would stay here forever if he could. If only… 

He hummed contently as John’s fingers began massaging his scalp, and peppered kisses all over John’s inner thigh in return as he stroked him, occasionally licking at the salty skin, enjoying the taste of him and savouring it, knowing some day soon it would be the last time he would have the other man like this and wanting to appreciate every second they had together. Turning his wrist, he changed the angle of his strokes and let his fingers dance rhythmically over the length as he glanced up at the other man through his lashes, wanting to see what he was doing to the other man. 

John looked stunning as he lay there, eyes half-open, dark with lust and arousal as he stared down at him, taking in the sight as he groaned, voice deep and thick as his orgasm drew near after what must seem like an eternity. This time Paul would give it to him, and he could see John knew it too. His thighs tensed as he wrapped his legs firmer around Paul, refusing to let him go until he had finished what he had started. Not that Paul would have pulled away if he had had the chance; he would never be that cruel.

He caressed him, letting him know he was there for him, that he had him, that he could let go, and raised his head to take John back into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the head and sliding them all the way down to the base as his tongue worked at the thick vein that ran along the underside of the shaft, licking and pushing and massaging as John let out a prolonged whine in response, his hips inching desperately off the bed. Repressing a smirk, Paul continued to hollow out his cheeks and started sucking, drinking him down as he moved his head up and down, pleasing John in the exact way he knew he would find the most satisfying. 

John was getting there. It was easy enough to see:  John’s cock lay throbbing on his tongue, his legs were shaking, his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, and his fingers tightened their hold on Paul’s hair, letting him know all he needed to know. He could read John like a book, knew exactly what he needed, what he wanted most, and Paul was more than happy to give it to him. So, holding his gaze, he opened his throat and went down, causing John to tremble under him. 

“Paul…” he muttered, his eyes briefly falling close before they snapped open again, landing right onto Paul’s, watching him with hungry eyes as Paul devoured him, his left hand coming up to fondle his balls, applying just the right amount of pressure he knew would get John there. Sure enough, the man’s eyes fluttered close again, another breathless moan escaping his lips, and his eyebrows creased in concentration as he thrusted up to meet Paul’s movements, his hand tangling in the sheets beneath him while his other pulled at Paul’s hair, bringing him even closer and keeping him there, refusing to let go. 

He was a mere inch away from orgasming. Paul would only have to apply the exact right amount of pressure with his hand, suck just hard enough, or simply hum and John would come. Just one more deliberate, well-timed suck... and that was exactly what Paul gave him: a suck, a hum  _ and _ a squeeze, all at once, only to cough as his lover came with a cry and a hot spurt of cum shot out of his member and down Paul’s throat. 

Keeping his eyes open and breathing through his nose in order to keep himself from gagging, he swallowed it. He held John as far down his throat as he could manage as he let him shoot rope after rope into him, swallowing it all as he let out a moan himself at the warm, familiar taste. Once John had finished, he pulled off with a plop, made quick work to lick him clean, chuckling at the occasional jerks John’s body made from overstimulation, and moved back up to lay beside him, where he was met with a long, lazy kiss. 

“Call me a genius again,” John asked as they broke apart and Paul laughed as he rolled over, grabbing a shirt from the floor and slipping it on, feeling chilly, the winter cold having invaded John’s room as well. He didn’t bother buttoning it, though, and simply let it hang from his frame as he laid down on the bed with John, turning to him with a good-humoured grin. 

“I don’t think so, love. You might begin to believe it if I do,” he said, rolling over onto his side to face him, his legs resting against John’s. He wished he had something to smoke, feeling the familiar itch in his throat, but they had nothing at hand. Instead he simply lay there for a while, looking down at where his legs lay tangled with John’s, chuckling drunkenly as he noticed his legs weren’t only longer than John’s, but more hairy as well, John’s legs being smooth with only a few light hairs covering them. They appeared almost hairless and Paul liked them that way, liked how soft they felt to the touch. 

Smiling at the thought, he glanced up to see John was looking at their intertwined legs as well, but instead of a smile, a frown lay on his face. He looked lost in thought, and Paul wondered what he was thinking of that could have caused such a serious frown. He had seen that particular expression on him more and more during their last meetings, and Paul had often caught him staring at him as well, to which John responded by quickly averting his eyes. 

John tended to stare, always had, even during their very first meeting, and Paul doubted the man was even aware of it most of the time, but neither of them had ever minded, and never had John looked away when Paul had caught him doing so, choosing to respond with a smile instead. But now, he only looked embarrassed. 

Generally, Paul was used to people staring at him, from awe or something more negative, it didn’t matter, and he had learned to be flattered either way. It was a sign of status, of power, of influence. His mother and father had always told him that when he had complained about it. “Your pretty face will only benefit you in that respect, Paul. You’d better look after it,” he remembered his mother telling him when he had been about five years old and had become fed up with people - especially girls and older women - fawning over him. He had taken that advice at heart and since then he had used his looks to get what he wanted, not just from those girls or those women with their cheek pinching, but his parents as well, something he had had difficulty with when his mother had passed away. 

But with John, it was different. John looked at him in admiration, with a look of tenderness rather than one of fear and respect. Or at least, that is how it had been. But when he caught him staring now, he saw something else in there, something he had a hard time figuring out. He wanted to ask what he was thinking, hoping it might explain why he was acting strange, but already he knew what John would say, so he didn’t.

A strange and sudden feeling overcame him as he lay there a moment longer, the thoughtless haze of sex fading as he lay thinking, wondering, while staring at John and listening to his heavy breathing as he caught his breath. He felt odd, and he wasn’t sure if it was a feeling of happiness or sadness. It was like a combination of both, a strange kind of melancholy he found hard to place. Somewhere he felt happy - he recognised it in the way his lips would curl despite himself when he touched John, or noticed the little marks he had left behind on his pale skin - but yet something felt wrong - off. Something was nagging at him, and Paul could not put it aside. Mostly because he knew exactly what it was. 

It was the same feeling he had felt that day with Jane, but to a lesser extend. He could hear her voice in his mind, talking to him, reminding him of what he still had to discuss with John. He didn’t want to though, and that only made the feeling worse. He had to regain control over the situation; he had lost it in Paris when John had first persuaded him to continue their affair back home in England, despite Paul’s better knowledge of how dangerous that was, that it was a mere prolonging of the inevitable. He could say he had lost it long before that, on the evening when he had gotten drunk and first kissed him, or even when he had invited John to come to Paris with him in the first place, or even when he had allowed himself to be caught with the stable boy - he had already forgotten his name - and the more Paul thought about it, the more he wondered if he had ever had any kind of control over any of his affairs. And now Jane had suggested they could have separate lovers! Going along with that was asking for trouble. 

He did know, though, that if he was going to have an affair during his marriage, it couldn’t be with John. He had let himself get too caught up with him, and although he wasn’t certain what it was about the man that made him have such a strong influence on him, he knew it was dangerous. He had to end it, regain control, be the son and heir his father wanted him to be, the husband Jane needed and deserved. But he didn’t want to. Something was stopping him. It didn’t make any sense. 

Even so… he had to.

“Paul? Is everything alright?”

A moment passed before Paul registered the words. They sounded far away, and once Paul had understood the meaning of them, the usually simple question seemed impossible to answer. He focussed his eyes on John and forced a smile. 

“Yeah. I’m fine,” he said, though his tone carried a weight with it that undid everything he had just said. The smile felt painful and fake on his lips, and slowly it faltered. A lump formed in his throat as John reached out and laid a comforting hand on his naked thigh, and with a sigh, he gave in. John would not like this, and Paul doubted he would even understand, but he had to tell him. He had to regain control.  

“There is a ball coming up. In a little more than three weeks from now,” he said, deciding to start out easy. It gave him a little more time to think about how he was going to let John know he would need to end their affair two months early without hurting him too much. He wondered, rather unwillingly, if John had hoped their affair would have continued even after his marriage, or whether he had even thought that far ahead at all. Maybe he simply took it day by day and didn’t think about how it would end or when or why. He found it hard to imagine John either way and didn’t know which one would be preferable, knowing John would react badly regardless. “My father’s organising it. Family, friends, acquaintances, complete strangers… they are all going to be there. I’ve been writing invitations for it all weekend.” 

“I thought you liked dancing and social gatherings and things like that?” 

“I do. Ot at least, as long as my family isn’t there and I can be free enough to dance with whomever I please.” He caught John smiling bashfully at that, and Paul knew he was thinking about the dance he had taken him to in Paris, which in turn made his chest tingle at the knowledge John knew he was talking about him specifically. 

Those days seemed long ago, a distant memory Paul couldn’t even be certain had truly happened, and he often wondered if he hadn’t dreamt it all up. But seeing John, smiling and looking at him like that, he knew it  _ had  _ happened, and he could almost feel the press of John’s body against his own as they danced, the firmness with which John had held him, and how easily he had let Paul guide him. He hadn’t been much of a dancer compared to other people Paul had danced with - both men and women - and yet there was something about the other man that made Paul want to dance with him rather than anyone else. 

“Besides,” Paul continued, swallowing thickly as he pushed the memories away, not wanting to think of that now, every thought of John and him together making it even harder for him to say what he needed to say, “my father expects me to be there with Jane… as… a couple. An engaged one.” Paul wanted to clarify what he meant exactly, but before he could, John had already spoken. 

“I see..” he said, even though Paul highly doubted that he did. “And you’d rather be dancing with someone… closer to your interests than her?” 

_ There are many things I’d prefer doing with someone closer to my interests than her _ , Paul thought, but only nodded. 

“Maybe,” John continued, a mischievous little smirk on his lips as rolled over and curled his hand around Paul’s hip, pulling him closer as he began to move on top of him, letting one of his legs fall between Paul’s, “maybe I should come too, then?” Paul blinked up at him in surprise, failing to understand what he meant. 

“You? Come too?” 

“Yes! Maybe I could come to the ball as well and make it a little more interesting for you. We could… oh, I don’t know! Sneak off somewhere, perhaps, dance in secret like we did in Paris, steal some food and hide under the table to eat it, make fun of people’s silly dresses and suits, drink ourselves into a stupor, I could… make the whole evening more pleasant.” John wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said that last, making it more than clear what he meant exactly and Paul almost gasped at the mere suggestion of it. John had completely misunderstood what he had meant! 

“You’re not serious!”

“Well, maybe I am,” John replied with a wink, but Paul could only stare at him. “Might be fun. And it will keep you happy during the whole affair.”

“Are you insane?! We could get into some serious trouble! Not to mention it’d be highly inappropriate, whisking me away from my own party like that. People expect me to be there. The ball, it-” 

“You will be! But in between you talking to all those boring people and dancing with your beloved future wife,” John reached out to take Paul’s hand and pressed his lips against the back of his fingers, before kissing his way up to the man’s bare arm as he looked up at Paul with a heated gaze that caused a warm feeling to spread from Paul’s stomach to his groin, “ _ I _ can make sure you’ll enjoy the evening in  _ many different ways _ .”

“By dancing with me and stealing food?” Paul asked, voice tight, and John grinned at him as he finally reached his shoulder, pulling Paul’s arm around his waist and guiding his hand to his arse. 

“Amongst other things,” he said in a suggestive tone of voice that would usually have Paul melting in his arms. Before Paul could object and explain what he had meant exactly, John had leaned down and captured his lips in a soft and teasing kiss, deliberately keeping it chaste yet with a hint of sexual passion that never failed to leave Paul wanting more. He found himself moaning against John, his fingers subconsciously squeezing John’s arse as he relaxed against him, pulling him closer despite himself. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. It was clear John had not understood what the purpose of the ball was and why it was being thrown at all. But then again, did it truly matter? In the end, John knowing the function of the ball would not change anything, and maybe it would be better not to tell him, to just enjoy their last weeks without having to worry about those things, to just enjoy and be with each other, like now. Knowing would do nothing but distract from what was truly important.

“We could sneak off,” John continued, pressing Paul down into the mattress as he climbed on top of him, legs on either side as he straddled him, causing Paul to let out a heated moan as he sat in his lap. 

“We could find an empty room somewhere, somewhere secret,” John whispered, his voice low and hoarse, as if he had been held balancing on the edge for hours, and Paul let out another moan as John leaned in and kissed the side of his mouth. His lips were soft and firm, and Paul’s eyes fluttered close for a moment as John’s lips trailed down to his jaw, sucking on it. “Somewhere no one will bother us...” 

His fingers, persuasive little things, moved up over Paul’s arms and chest, gently rubbing his nipples whenever he passed one, making Paul hotter and hotter as he let John do what he wanted, letting out the occasional gasp whenever John did something that felt especially good. 

“I can make you feel better,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, sending shivers down Paul’s spine, “I could suck you off, or eat you out, right there and then, with so many people just a few rooms away, wondering where you are. And you’d be with me, hard, wanting, whispering my name, grunting it while you bend me over a table or push me against the wall or a bookcase or onto the piano and fuck me, take me hard, because you  _ need  _ me.” His mouth was only inches from Paul’s ear as he whispered to him, his hot, damp breath ghosting over Paul’s skin, and the younger man gasped in pleasure as John closed his lips around it. He sucked and nibbled lightly as he rocked his hips down into Paul, letting Paul’s half-hard dick slide between his firm, round arse cheeks, and pulling another heated growl from his parted lips. 

“John-” Paul tried, his hands coming up to push at the man’s shoulders, but he found little motivation to pull through with it, liking what John was doing to him too much. John felt so good against him, warm, firm, soft, yet hard in the right places, and although Paul had only just come and still felt exhausted, he was miraculously growing hard again. 

“I know you’d like that. And the afterwards you go back and dance with your pretty lady and talk to all those boring posh people, and no one would know just what you’ve done to me, and why I wince whenever I sit down, so I remain standing, and you’d know why. You’d know it was your fault. You’d know how much I like it and how I would let you do it all again. You’d only have to say so...”

“John, it’s not…” Paul tried once more, but couldn’t bring himself to say it, his word cutting off in a pained groan. John paused his movements as his words reached his ears and pulled back to look Paul in the eye, a frown on his face, seeming completely out of place on his otherwise flushed and aroused expression. “The ball… it’s-”

“It’s what?”

“It’s just…”

“Come on, Paul. You know I’m joking. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I just thought it’d be nice for you to have some mental support if you’re that nervous about it. I know it can’t be easy having to put up that mask all the time, the lying, pretending to be the happiest couple in the world… I just thought it might be nice if I were there with you. You don’t have to fuck me against the wall in some deserted room, if you don’t want to.” 

Paul smiled at that, but felt something tugging at his heart, painful and unforgiving. It was sweet how much John cared, that he would doubt Paul wouldn’t be into that - he  _ was _ , though he wasn’t sure if he would actually  _ want  _ to do it, the chances of being caught too high for him to want to risk it. But there was something inside of him that kept him from saying what he needed to say, that made him doubt whether he should even say it at all. 

What difference would it make if John knew? The final end result would be the same: they would finish off the portrait and either end it there, or John would come to the ball and they would end it after that. Paul didn’t know when he had decided to accept John’s proposal to come to the ball. It would be too dangerous and could only end in disaster. But it would be nice to have him there, have him as support, some kind of safe haven Paul could run to if it got too much. 

However, he doubted John would be willing to come if he knew what the ball was for, and that afterwards their relationship would be over and they would never see each other again. It did not seem fair. Perhaps John would want to end their relationship right now if he knew they needed to end it once the portrait was finished. Perhaps John would see it as a waste of time, and would want to focus on finishing the actual thing he had been asked to do the last few week insteads. 

Frankly, Paul had more to lose than to gain if he were to tell John the truth. If it were to end in a fight, it didn’t matter, did it? Because they would never see each other again. It was like it had been with his mother’s death: knowing what was going to happen would only take away from joy and happiness they had now. It would ruin it, leave a sour taste in his mouth, and although it would hurt in the end, it would’ve have hurt regardless. 

“No, I… I’d like you to be there,” he heard himself saying, glancing up at John with a self-satisfied smirk as he stared into his eyes. “It might be fun to see how far you’re willing to go to live up to your promises. As long as you make sure you look handsome and well-dressed, of course. My father will kill me for inviting you otherwise.” 

“I think I might have invited myself, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure to look pretty and worthy of an upper-class gentleman like yourself,” John said, fluttering his eyelashes and Paul smiled at that, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of nausea in his stomach. 

“I can’t wait,” he said, and John chuckled as he leaned in and pressed their lips together again.

“Want to enjoy the remaining one hour and twenty minutes together before you’re going to have to leave and I’m going to have to sneak off to finish your portrait in secret?” John suggested, muttering it against Paul’s mouth and Paul eagerly nodded, his fingers tangling themselves into John’s sweaty locks and keeping him close, needing his touch and kisses, to have him with him now he still could. He was here with John and they were going to enjoy the last few weeks they had together. It would be worth it. John was worth it. 

***

Paul paced nervously back and forth in front of the door to his father’s office, hands clutched behind his back, gathering courage as he felt like he was eight years old again. His heart felt as if it was stuck in his throat, making breathing difficult and whenever he swallowed, he got the extreme urge to throw up. He had never liked having to speak to his father in this way, whether it was from his own initiative or because his father had called him to him. Although the man was very different outside his office, inside Paul always felt he was under constant scrutiny and attack, making an actual amicable conversation with him all but impossible, which is why Paul would always try to talk to him outside of it if he could manage. Today, though, he had no choice. 

Since he had been young, his mother had told him not to disturb his father unless it was absolutely necessary, because he was such a busy man, and while he now knew she had only told him that to stop him from running into his father’s office during important meetings to show him a drawing he had made or to insist he’d listen to something he had learned on the piano or hear him recite a poem he had learned from the top of his head or something similarly silly, the fear of disturbing his father had never quite gone. 

As he had gotten older, and as a result had gotten into a lot more trouble, going to his father’s office more often than not resulted in marks on the palms of his hands or a sore arse depending on his father’s choice of punishment for that day, and soon Paul had started to avoid the room as much as possible. At first, Paul had been able to charm his way out of most of them, but once his mother had passed away, the spankings had gotten worse and more frequent. 

He still felt those same old nerves whenever he stood in front of the door - not that his father had stopped his punishments with him, like he had with Michael, though one hard slap would now usually suffice - the memory of those rare but painful spankings coming back to him. His father wasn’t a cruel man, but he believed a disciplinary spanking or hit when he was pushed to such measures. Paul doubted he’d have any reason for such measures now, though, as he doubted he’d be punished for inviting someone to his own ball. The chance, however, was there, especially if his father were to find out about the true nature of his relationship to John. That could not happen. 

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax and knocked on the door. His father wasn’t busy. Mike had told him that himself. He would be fine. 

“Yes?” James McCartney’s harsh voice came through the door, and Paul swallowed thickly. 

“It’s me, Paul. Can I come in for a moment? There is something I have to discuss with you.”

It remained silent for a moment behind the door, and Paul could hear some light stumbling and cursing as he pressed his ear against the door, trying to listen for any indication of his father’s mood. He had to hastily take a step back as the door suddenly opened and his father appeared in the doorway. Paul tried to keep a straight face as he looked up at him, trying to look casual, and although his father narrowed his eyes at him for a moment and it seemed for a moment he would make a comment about the rudeness of listening in on people, he then stepped aside and beckoned Paul to come in. 

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I thought you were Garrow. He's been bothering me all afternoon. Something about chewed up curtains or something similarly unimportant. Now, what is it you want to discuss?” he asked as he moved to sit behind his desk again with a sigh, and Paul bit his tongue to repress his nerves as he went inside and closed the door behind him, hoping it hadn’t been Martha who had ruined the curtains. Mr Garrow already did not like her, claiming she made his life and job as butler ten times harder. Paul had tried disciplining her, but in all honestly, he would not mind if he was talking about those awful curtains in the dining room. He would be glad to see them gone. 

Unsure whether his father wanted him to sit down or not, he remained lingering in the back of the room near the door, not wanting to intrude or do anything that would give cause to his father to be annoyed with him. He needed him as unassuming as possible if he didn’t want his father to be suspicious about his motivations for inviting John.

“Well, I er… went to see Mr Lennon-” Paul started, but his father immediately interrupted him, barking at him to take a seat. 

“Don’t just stand there. You’re my son, for God’s sake, not an employee,” Jim said and Paul blinked at him a few times in surprise, before he hastily did as told. Once he had taken his seat, his father motioned him to continue. 

“Right… Well, I went to see Mr Lennon earlier today,” he repeated, fighting the smile that was daring to creep up onto his lips at the mere mention of him and what he had done to him after he had invited himself to the ball - the man had an impressive imagination even Paul could learn from, “and I erm… I thought it would be polite to invite him to the ball, to show some gratitude for his hard work on my portrait.” 

His father looked at him in surprise, his head cocked to the side, and Paul forced a careful smile, repressing the urge to say any more, knowing it was best to make it seem as normal and self-explanatory as possible. He had spent his entire way home thinking of a good reason for why he would have invited John to the ball, fearing his father would otherwise suspect something, and this was the best he had managed to come up with. It wasn’t the best lie, even a weak one when thought about for too long, but there was only so much he could work with in this case and he hoped his father would buy into it, against all odds and expectations. 

It already was a miracle his father didn’t insist on someone accompanying him to his meetings with John in the first place, seeing as he was a handsome young lad of a similar age as himself, and Paul didn’t want to give him any reasons to start doing that now, as it would make for a greatly unsatisfying end to their affair. He crossed his legs and sat up a bit more, taking on a more confident pose as he looked his father directly in the eye, but with the meekness and respect his father expected to see in him. 

“You invited Mr Lennon to show him your gratitude for the portrait?” his father repeated and Paul nodded as he kept his eyes on him, knowing one wrong move, look or word would mean the end of this, and worse, the end of his relationship with John. 

“I thought it would be the appropriate and courteous thing to do, considering the high quality he’s delivering, while only being an apprentice. Not to mention we asked him to finish the portrait an entire month early, to which he agreed without so much as a word of objection. He’s been most polite and accommodating and so I thought it would be suitable to thank him for that,” he said with more confidence than he felt, and Jim hummed as he sat back in his seat, looking at his son with narrowed eyes as he studied him. 

“Is that so?” 

“You always taught me it was important to be thankful and polite. Besides, I er… I thought you would have the portrait displayed somewhere perhaps, alongside your own, and… well… it would be fitting for the artist to be there when it's first admired, don’t you think? It’s important to give him some recognition for his efforts. It would help his career as well. I thought it would be the least we could do for him.”

“And you think inviting him would be fitting? It’s not just _any_ ball, after all.”

“He and I have become good acquaintances during the weeks we have spent together. He would not be out of place,” Paul readily replied, and immediately wished he could take those words back and rephrase that sentence, fearing his father would see through him. Fortunately he only hummed again and folded his hands in his lap as he nodded, thinking. Paul swallowed thickly, but refrained from looking away. “What I mean to say is-”

“I know what you mean to say, Paul,” his father interrupted him and Paul fell silent immediately, a cold shiver running up his spine, fearing what he father thought, his mind spinning as he tried to think of anything that might save him at the last moment. 

For a moment, Jim remained silent, but then a small smile broke on his lips, and he sat up with a proud shimmer in his eyes. “I have to admit, that was very thoughtful of you to do, to think about him. Yes… Yes, let him come, why don’t you! He seems like a nice enough young man when I met him. Just… make sure he dresses and acts properly. I don’t want anyone disturbing the evening. It is one for celebration after all! We don’t want want one person’s presence to leave a sour taste.”

“Yes! Thank you, father,” Paul said, with slightly too much enthusiasm than what might have been appropriate, but his father didn’t comment on it. “I’ll make sure of that, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt it, son,” Jim said, smiling and Paul felt his chest expand with pride as he father regarded him like that. He hadn’t seen that look in his eye for a long time. He could hardly remember when. Surely it had to be before his mother had passed away… “Now, write him a formal invitation and let him bring his young lady if he has one. Do you know if he has a young lady, Paul?”

“No, it er… it never came up in conversation,” Paul said, checking himself to keep his cheeks from flushing. His father hummed, though Paul could not discern if it was a positive or negative hum. 

“Well, either way, he can bring someone if he likes. Now, Paul, I have some other business to attend to before dinner. If you please...” Jim said motioning towards the door and Paul nodded as he got up and hastily made his way out of the room, eager to get out, excitement rushing through his body. Before he could close the door behind him, however, his father called him back. 

“Oh, and Paul?” he asked, and Paul winced softly before turned to face him. “I am proud of you. It seems you have picked up more of my advice and lessons than I had thought. Your Mum… she would have been proud too.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, smile faltering slightly and his heart thumping in his chest as he said it. He nodded at him and hurried out of the room as his father turned back to the stack of papers on his desk, giving him leave to go with a wave of his hand. 

As soon as the door was closed, Paul collapsed against it, groaning softly to himself, feeling his heart creep its way back up, as if trying to crawl out of his throat. His dad had been proud of him… It had been the first time he had said that in years, and the reason why was a lie - a lie that could have him be disowned if his father would find out. 

He was a terrible son. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, I do not condone hitting your children as a form of discipline. Don't do that.


End file.
